Of Old Men and Watches
by CKTG
Summary: Sherlock finds a fob watch that John never seems to notice. Unfortunately, Mycroft is just as interested. No slash. AU Doctor Who universe.
1. Prologue

**Hello everyone! I apologize to those who have been following A Study in Alterations, but I promise you, this option is much better. The facts:**

**Summary: **Sherlock finds a fob watch that John never seems to notice. Unfortunately, Mycroft is just as interested.

**Warnings: **angst, violence, not-so-vivid descriptions of dead bodies (for the squeamish), etc.

**Pairings: **none. No slash, ever. Not even if you think it may be. It's not. You can get that elsewhere.

**For those who are very invested in the Doctor Who universe, I apologize ahead of time for my mediocre knowledge in Torchwood (which will NOT be a large feature in this story) and of the fandom in general. HOWEVER, I have seen all the episodes of the new Doctor Who series, excluding this year's Christmas special, and I know my order of events. For the sake of this story, I have altered the Doctor Who universe, and I hope you enjoy the story despite its differences to canon. That is why it's called an AU, after all. And fanfiction, for that matter. :)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock, nor do I own that fantastic blue box.**

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Of Old Men and Watches

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1

"I have strange dreams," John told his therapist one day. It was a good day, where the sun brightened the window pane just enough to make it glow, but not enough for it to glare angrily into John's sight. The blades of grass rustled soundlessly against each other as the oddly sunny day defied the definition of usual London weather. Two birds with shimmering blue feathers twittered and soared around each other in perfect harmony, and it caught his eye as he turned his head to appreciate the day.

Ella's voice grounded him back to the office, hard and grating compared to the light breeze battering the glass. "It's been months since our last appointment, John," she reminded him, her tone cuing to John that she wasn't the least bit pleased. It sounded as if even the twittering birds wouldn't brighten her day. For shame. "Why come back now?"

John forced the corners of his lips up, feeling the wrinkles reluctantly give way to make room for his falsified, yet polite, gesture. To be fair, the question wasn't unwarranted—he _hadn't_ seen Ella since Sherlock fixed his limp—but Sherlock didn't want to hear about his dreams, not when they were so illogical and strange.

He cleared his throat awkwardly and rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, I'm here now, aren't I?" he decided on after a quiet moment.

Ella shifted her clipboard so it rested more comfortably on her knees. "You never showed any interest in my services before, John," she said, clasping her ringed fingers over her notes, trapping her pen underneath the weathered curve of her palm. John had never noticed before how old her hands looked in comparison to her face, which was smooth and unpocked as a child's. "Why come back now?"

John swallowed, now uncomfortable. This was why he quit therapy in the first place—Ella always wanted to delve deeper into his feelings, to find the base of why he felt the way he did. But John didn't want to talk about his feelings or his past, he didn't want to talk about his father or his decade of military service, which had been something he was finally good at but had to give it up on account of his near-fatal injury. This John considered to be in the past, and John_ never_ looked to the past for guidance or consultation, which his therapist annoying wanted to do every time he met with her. He would rather soldier on and leave it be, but his dreams were something he couldn't explain, which was why he returned to Ella in the first place.

"I told you: I have strange dreams," he repeated, not sure how to begin.

Ella must have realized she was not going to get anywhere with her original approach, as she dropped her irritated stance and adopted a more professional face of polite interest. Her ballpoint pen stood erect on her notepad, loosely gripped in her right hand, the black ink slowly pooling where the tip was pressed. She nodded to present her undivided attentiveness, and John took that as an invitation to begin.

"They're always the same," John said, furrowing his brow in concentration, "or, at least, they start off the same. It's always a bit dark, like I'm standing in a cave."

"Are you scared of this dark, John?" Ella asked. Her pen scratched against the paper in readable, feminine swoops. For a moment, he wondered what that said about her personality—Sherlock would know. He always knew.

"No. Never," John said distantly, for this thought had never occurred to him. He took a moment to sink into his most recent dream, and nodded to confirm his original analysis. "I'm always... jittery."

"Jittery?"

"Antsy. Excited," John said, trying his best to explain, "Like I'm waiting for something to happen."

Ella looked at him blankly, pen still, and he rubbed his face. "Christ, I'm pants at this," he declared, swiping the tiredness from his eyes and catching his fingertips on the slightly prickling stubble.

"You're doing just fine," Ella said smoothly, but too quickly for it to have been natural. She must have thought he would stalk out the door as he did in his first sessions in therapy, back when his leg was still useless and his patience with life was short.

John's lips lifted slightly, knowingly, but he didn't look at her. Instead, he stared out the window where the sun and birds frolicked, and the image of a blood red sky where three suns perched unevenly, almost overlapping the other, flashed to replace his current setting. He shook his head and the blue sky reappeared, the smoothness of the color broken only by the occasional wisp of cloud or a branch reaching into the atmosphere as if longing to grasp onto the edge of the planet.

"The darkness continues for a little longer, and then there's a hand on my shoulder," John mused, returning his attention to his therapist.

"Do you know whose hand it may be?" Ella asked curiously.

John shook his head. "No, but it's large—it spans the whole of my shoulder and continues a bit onto my back, which makes me think I'm a kid."

"Usually your first instinct on your dreams is correct," Ella said, jotting down a few notes. They read: _overbearing/controlling parents, perhaps were demanding, problems with father_? and _John still has trust issues, though is finally opening up. Progressive step forward?_ John looked away before she could catch him reading her handwriting upside-down again, but by the knowing glint in her eyes, John knew he didn't succeed.

"There's nothing, and then: color," John said, screwing up his eyes to remember the blinding, swirling mass of his dreams that made him dizzy and nauseas. "Blues, greens, purples... impossible colors, all mixing together. They're rushing toward me with increasing speed, and then I'm scared. I hear and see... things. Things I can't explain, things I don't want to know, things that terrify me, and they're all coming at me quickly and I don't know what to do and—" John inhaled sharply, as the words tumbled out of his mouth without his permission and with such fervor he wondered if he was picking up this trait from Sherlock.

He paused and shook his head. This was nonsense. Pure nonsense. This was a bad idea; he shouldn't have come. John stretched out his fingers, splaying them on the rounded edges of his armchair to heave himself out of the entrapping recesses of the leathery wrinkles of the chair, and muttered to himself, "hopeless, hopeless. This is _STUPID_."

But before he could attempt to pull himself from the chair, Ella asked, "And what?"

"Hmm?" John was distracted, looking at the window again, but roving his eyes to the door and to the cracks in the ceiling when he saw that the glass was locked, barring him from an exit. He was too short to use the vents to escape, and the door was much too obvious a route. Ella could stop him if she really wanted to that way. Maybe he should pack with him a disposable battering ram...

"What happens next in your dream, John?" Ella asked again. Her facial expression had not changed, but there was something indecipherable in her gaze that left her large brown eyes lacking in luster. "After the... colors... rush at you. What happens then?"

John paused, considering the question with his tongue trailing the ridges of the roof of his mouth. Ella obviously didn't know what to make of his dream or didn't believe him; he's had enough. He then pushed himself to his feet and walked toward the door, contemplating whether or not he should pay for this session or not, as it did absolutely nothing for him.

When his calloused hand wrapped around the cool metal of the door knob, Ella called his name again: "John? I don't think we're finished."

"Yeah we are," John chuckled, pulling the door open. Instantly, the lavender air freshener of the barely cheerful lobby batted at his nostrils, and John scrunched his face the best he could to rid of the smell without going as far as sneezing. It truly was an awful smell. Why couldn't these places smell like normal things like vanilla or gunpowder?

"John," Ella sounded rushed, as if pressing to fit what she had to say in the few moments before John left this place behind forever, "the matter of your dreams is very concerning, and I think you should talk to someone."

John laughed again, this time without humor. Who was he going to tell? His parents, who lay six feet under in a cemetery an hour away? His sister, who was usually too drunk and busy with her own problems to give a damn about his? "Not a liable option for me, Dr. Forrester," he told her instead.

Ella stood, setting her clipboard aside before cautiously walking to him, careful to keep a professional distance away from him when she stopped.

"What about your new flat mate?" she asked as a desperate last resort, "from what I've read in your blog, you two have seemed to hit it off."

John gave her an incredulous look. "Are you kidding me? Use Sherlock Holmes as my new therapist? I think I'd be better off telling my problems to a brick wall."


	2. Miracle Work 1

2

Sherlock Holmes stood in front of his mantelpiece, eyes narrowed, the tips of his fingers barely touching underneath his chin. He barely registered the heat of the sun warming his back where the black suit jacket stretched along the broad line of his shoulders and dropped to his waist. It was buttoned neatly in the center to keep his jacket from flapping open should he raise his arms above his shoulders, but Sherlock was in a state where he far from cared about his neat appearance—in fact, he wasn't presently in his living area at all, despite the very location of his body.

Sherlock's eyes were presently trained on a small, gleaming object next to his pile of letters pinned to the wood of the mantle with a hooked hunting knife (a gift from one of his more gracious clients), and if he looked up, he would be able to see his troubled and irritated countenance in the mirror that hanged between the polished shelving that held his considerable library. Thoughts swirled in his mind as he plucked them from the recesses of his brain and folded them away, organizing them very carefully into perfectly immaculate rows (ordered by matter of importance and then alphabetized into sub-categories). One by one he picked up a theory, connected it with something that _may_ just be the correct answer, then discarding discrepancies appeared. It was a tedious work Sherlock had forced himself to do within his free time (something that was becoming less and less now that cases appeared to him with surprising speed—grudgingly, he admitted that despite John's horrific romanticisms of their cases, people _did _read them, and therefore more clients).

The object of Sherlock's scrutiny? An old fob watch.

It was silver, if not a bit tarnished, but otherwise in relatively good shape. The fob watch was old, so much so obvious given the style, but there were only a few scratches here and there—it had been dropped quite a few times (which Sherlock had seen himself—John was nothing but careless with this relic, which was odd, given John treated his other possessions as if they were precious jewels). He would have dismissed it as an ordinary watch had it not been for the round markings circling the base and top in a never ending cycle; they were of a design Sherlock had never seen before, and no matter how much research he had invested in it, he could not pinpoint its origin or meaning. It wasn't a coat of arms (much too large, much too randomized, and not enough symbolism), it wasn't engraved by hand (no indents, no trembling lines or hesitation), and it wasn't some random design cooked up by a starving artist. The idiosyncrasy (for Sherlock had no other word for it) almost looked as if it were burned onto the silver, save for the fact that the watch showed no signs of being burned, either. The only possible theory Sherlock could come up with at any moment of its scrutiny was it was a language of some sort: the imprint resembled ancient hieroglyphics in the way the circles and lines seemed to have a sort of pattern to its chaos. He couldn't prove this theory, however, seeing as he couldn't match the imprint up with _any_ language, dead or alive.

(This, Sherlock found most irritating. Though the puzzle was gloriously challenging and kept the rot of the banal world at bay, it proved to grate on his nerves that he couldn't find _any_ lead in this case he had created for himself.)

The first time Sherlock had seen the fob watch was the day he assisted John's move into 221B Baker Street. It had been the morning after the Taxi Driver Case (he absolutely _refused_ to call it A Study in Pink—it was hardly that at all. Wouldn't a more fitting title be A Study in Psychopathic Cabbies or A Study in Suicides That Were Actually Murders? Other than the fact the woman who had led them to her killer was obsessed with pink, the color had nothing to do with the case at all. Idiotic), and they had been emptying the two tattered cardboard boxes that claimed the entirety of John's possessions into the bare room upstairs. Most of John's belongings were being examined by Sherlock as they were taken from the boxes to the bed. John may have said something earlier about his things being private, but he must have given up, seeing how intrigued Sherlock had been. The thought had made Sherlock smirk; John wouldn't have been able to keep him from going through his things, anyway. John should have counted himself lucky Sherlock was doing it within John's company; usually Sherlock searched people's things without their knowledge.

So there they sat, cordially, peaceably, as John explained some of his trinkets (for the most part, to confirm Sherlock's always correct deductions about them). This included a pink scarf given to him by his most long-lasting girlfriend (it had been hers and she gave it to John as a keepsake, and seeing as John kept it, he must have still had feelings for the woman, even if they were dulled by the years separated. She must have had strong feelings for John as well, but broke it off because of John's recruitment to the military. Conclusion: John was a hopeless romantic, heterosexual, but rarely had luck holding down a relationship. Sentiment. Ugh). There had been few photographs in his collection (John often let the past lie and never looked back), and it was surprising that there were more of his military career than of his family (and none with his father, intoning a difficult or non-existent relationship and perhaps past abuse. Perhaps this is where Harry Watson's drinking habits arose…? Impossible to conclude without further data, save for a later day). A blue knit cap, small and faded, had also been a part of this collection (stiches stretched and worn, loved, and statistically more likely given to him from a grandmother—the skill set required to home-make a hat did not fit correctly with John's mother's generation).

Strangely enough, John didn't seem to mind sharing his life with Sherlock as he put his belongings away (_flat mates should know the worst about each other_). And, for some reason Sherlock couldn't explain, it made him feel… content… at least. Less lonesome, he tabbed later (loneliness had been the norm his entire life, and until John's companionship had ended his streak, he couldn't tell what it was). He had felt included, and, he supposed, not all of John's tedious stories with mind-numbingly dull.

However, when John dug the watch out of the cardboard box, it was wrapped up in a blue silken cloth (which visibly stated its importance), but his original deduction had been contradicted when John carelessly threw it to the bed, where the bundle bounced once on the bare, springing mattress before the gleaming, tarnished silver fell from its wrappings. He hadn't even spared it a second glance, and as Sherlock pulled forth this memory from his mind palace, slowing it down frame for frame, John hadn't even given it a first glance. His very aware, very blue eyes roved over the fob watch, almost as if it wasn't even there.

(Of course, this had caught Sherlock's attention immediately, and even to the current day he was still trying to figure out how and why this was.)

With a pale, long-fingered hand, Sherlock snatched up the watch, widening his eyes in surprise; the watch was still warm, as if it had been lying outside in the sun for a few hours. The strangest thing about it was that it was broken; the gears didn't shift from inside, nor did ticking sound from within.

(This warmth was impossible, Sherlock recalled thinking, and he remembered looking at John, who had busied himself at the other end of the room, folding his socks in a way that made Sherlock cringe on the inside. The watch had been in this box for a long time—probably since before John was dispatched. There was no way it could still be warm.)

This strange watch left Sherlock mystified. It didn't tick. It was warm. It was an anomaly. Sherlock loved anomalies. Conclusion: must solve. How could it be doing these impossible things?

As Sherlock had been drawing up a blank, he sucked in his pride to do the very thing he seemed to be doing more and more the longer he spent in the presence of Doctor John Watson (never before had he been so interested in one human being, especially since he wasn't a particularly clever murderer): he asked the man a question (which was a very dull action reserved for the ordinary, not a consulting detective whose job it was to deduce the oddities of everyday life).

"What's this?" Sherlock had asked, and it was almost to himself. His thumb brushed the intricate, circular markings as the warmth permeated his skin.

John had paused in his rearrangement of his socks, stood up straight (eliciting a painful sounding crack as his back and shoulder joints shifted to allow such movement) and crossed the room without so much as a wince (aha! Sherlock had definitely cured John's annoying psychosomatic limp… all the man needed was an adrenaline fix… it was a refreshing thought to know he wasn't the only person who could get bored). When John was about an arm's length away, Sherlock handed over the fob watch for John to examine, studying his new flat mate's face closely.

John's dark blue eyes had glazed over with thought before they narrowed in confusion. After a minute, his expression became pinched as he ran a hand through his sandy-blonde hair. His haggard face (a result from the harsh, Afghani weather and weight loss) smoothed out as he broke out into a lazy grin.

"It's just a watch, Sherlock," John said with an amused look, both eyebrows raised.

_Then what was all that for? _Sherlock had felt like asking, but, for once, he refrained from doing so. Instead, he placed the watch carefully on John's bedside table next to a shabby lamp, trying to ignore the strange markings as they glinted with the morning sunlight that pushed through the almost dusty, curtain-less window. It was a difficult concept to push from his mind, this watch, so instead he had catalogued it as a case to solve on a later day and tucked it deep within what would soon be known as John's (extensive) room in his Palace.

(Presently, Sherlock fast forwarded until the next time he had seen the fob watch, which was three months later, when he and John had narrowly escaped Moriarty's clutches at the pool. No matter how many times he went over the scenes in his head, the pieces of the puzzle refused to slide together.)

Sherlock had been staring out the darkened window, his trusty violin hanging limply from his left hand, the smooth, polished wood of the neck pressing against his palm in a sure source of comfort. His bow was in his right, but it hung in a loose grasp by his fingertips, fully rosined up and ready to play. Yet, as Sherlock stared out into the darkness of that early morning, he found he didn't much feel like playing at all. He had tried to stare passed his reflection and into the bare streets, empty save for a few parked cars, the occasional staggering bum, and a straggling taxi cab driving some drunken man home, but the pale stranger staring back at him had been a distraction. His lips were chalk white and his piercing eyes were wide (most likely to be adrenaline, but fear still lingered in the depths—unease?).

A strangled cry had broken through Sherlock's estranged thoughts (at the time, he had distantly wondered whether or not he should push his only friend away or to keep him in his pocket and never let him out of his sight), and Sherlock tried his best not to flinch. To this day, he still had no idea if he succeeded or not. John had been rustling in his sleep, shaking underneath the warmth of his duvet in a desperate attempt to escape the villains of his night terrors (but Sherlock hadn't been up the creaking steps to John's room in order to check and see if his friend—yes, friend—was still there… no… he wasn't some mothering hen… and if he did, he would never admit it).

There had been an uneven thump as John's feet hit the ground, and Sherlock had tensed; he wasn't quite sure he wanted to see his friend… not now… not when he was still so ashamed. A criminal mastermind had seen was Sherlock had failed to observe: that John Watson meant very much to Sherlock (but, to be fair, Sherlock had never been close to anyone before, not even Mycroft, and it was all still so very new). He hadn't realized he had found a friend in John Watson, and that John Watson had surprisingly found a friend in Sherlock as well—not until John had stepped from the stalls at the pool (_where Carl Powers died… I stopped him… I can stop John Watson, too. Stop his heart)_ wearing that parka and smothered in Semtex.

(This had hurt terribly, and as Sherlock scrolled through this particular memory, private and locked as it was, he was careful not to seep too deeply into the thoughts of his past—somehow, it squeezed at his heart and left him breathless, worse than his original hurt of betrayal he had felt merely moments before when his hyperactive brain entertained the thought that John—_his _John—was Moriarty. It hurt very much, this thought, but it would have been clever, very clever, had it been true.)

Back on that fateful night, he had been pulled from his thoughts as the uneven thumping became louder with every step closer John came to entering their shared living space. Sherlock frowned at this recent development, and after a moment of silence, the door had creaked open, almost inaudibly, but there hadn't been the whisper of John's stocking feet on the rouge carpet, nor was there the creaking and groaning of John's joints as he lowered himself into his respective armchair. The little hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck stood up straight, and Sherlock could tell John was staring at him, waiting for him to speak.

"Was it the war?" Sherlock had croaked quietly without turning from the window. The stranger in looking back from the glass had demanded his attention, even more so now that John's tired reflection joined it.

John had shuffled his feet uncomfortably, but didn't move from his position on the threshold of the door frame. "No, not this time." John had sounded embarrassed. Why would he sound embarrassed? It wasn't as if John could control what he dreamed about each night.

Silence had fallen over them like a heavy fleece shock blanket, blocking out all background noise (such as the air conditioner rattling cool air through the vents, the creaking of the old flooring of their flat) until there was nothing left but two pairs of lungs steadily breathing and their heartbeats thrumming steadily in their ears. The violin sat heavily in Sherlock's hand.

It had been at least ten minutes before John said, in a very miserable voice, "I'm sorry."

Sherlock had no idea why John would be apologizing (Sherlock still didn't understand why anyone would apologize for something in the first place, but sentiment wasn't exactly his area), but even he knew the apology had been in an odd place. Sherlock had whipped around to face his friend in muted surprise, instantly observing everything about him to try and figure out why John wanted to say those two (possibly unnecessary) words. His graying, sandy blonde hair had been mussed up, sticking in random directions, wilder on his right side (obviously sleeping on his right shoulder, as the left one was damaged. Near-fatal gunshot wound. Ex-military already established). His baggy, black pajama pants had been crumpled along with his grey T-shirt, indication how John rolled (thus causing the inevitable pain in his left shoulder—holding it gingerly, obvious—could have induced Post Traumatic dreams) and kicked (favoring his left leg, so his right was paining him—explains the uneven, trudging walk John had adopted to walk down the stairs—the dream must have been fairly distressing) in his sleep. Bloodshot eyes and bruise-like shadows above his cheekbones showed his interrupted sleep cycle (he had woken up four—no, five—times before deciding to give up on sleep… this data collected elsewhere). The skin of John's brow had crinkled (anguished) and droplets of sweat beaded along his hairline. For some reason, John had been nervous, as his lips had pulled down in a light frown as he fingered the fob watch in his hands, occasionally switching the side it favored and twisting the dial (though the lack of clicking showed the watch was indeed broken, and John was winding up nothing but a set of unmovable gears).

Sherlock's urge to ask John about the watch was so strong he had felt as if his entire body was vibrating, and when he didn't act upon this desire, it ran him ragged with desperation (what in the devil was so mysterious about that watch? There was something about it that made it incredibly _wrong_).

Instead, Sherlock had asked a different question: "What for?"

John had sighed and ran a hand through his hair (habitual action, often used as a placeholder to stall for time, usually when emotionally compromised), looking down at his watch with a vacant expression as he fumbled with it. He slumped down (finally) into his chair, squishing the Union Jack pillow beneath his seat, the left side of his body highlighted in a halo of the glowing embers in the fireplace; John himself seemed to glow. Setting the fob watch on top of the yellowing newspaper on the side table, John said, "I should have been more careful. I knew there was one more pip… I know how to spot a tail… I just wasn't thinking…"

_Women are horrific distractions, I told you this, John_, Sherlock had felt like saying, but instead, he replied with a "Stop it." It was surprising when John followed orders, shutting his mouth with an audible clop. Sherlock had nodded before continuing, "There was no possible way you could have known Moriarty planned on taking you next."

John's fingers twitched, but his expression remained unchanged. Sherlock had exhaled harshly in frustration; he wanted to say more, but he didn't have the ability to do so. The last thing he wanted would be to upset John, especially at such a delicate time, but he felt he had to say _something._

"You're tired," Sherlock had stated at last, his face relaxing into realization. "You will be able to think better in the morning."

John had nodded once and pushed away from the seat; wobbling unsteadily on his feet (his leg must really be bothering him… should he offer his own bed? He wasn't going to sleep, anyway) as he made his way to the stairs.

John had paused on the landing and half turned his head, almost shy. He had opened his mouth once, hesitated, then shook his head before trudging up the stairs. Sherlock had been ninety-five point eight percent certain of John's unspoken request, and Sherlock tucked his violin underneath his chin, the trembling of Bach teased from the strings, following John up the staircase, bathing his dreams in golden light and silver arrows.

Once Sherlock had been sure John had finally fallen asleep (the usual time being thirty minutes to drift back into his dreams after a nightmare), he carefully deposited his shining Stradivarius into his case and snapped the lid shut before gaiting over to the side table by John's chair. In a fluid, graceful motion, Sherlock swiped up the watch. It was still warm, almost like a tiny, beating heart in the palm of his hand.

Just what was it about this watch that had Sherlock so intrigued? Even Sherlock acknowledged it was such an odd object to obsess over. He eyed the markings on the watch again and ruffled the dark curls at the back of his head. This, he had thought, flipping the watch over to feel its smooth, unblemished surface, was perhaps the most puzzling mystery he had ever come across. He knew the watch was significant, but why, he may not ever know.

Sherlock made it his job to find out.

Over the course of the next half year, Sherlock tracked the watch's progress in the back of his mind, keeping small little tabs on John's facial expressions, his mood, and his actions around the fob watch. Ever since John had brought the watch downstairs with him after The Great Game, it stayed in their shared living space. Every once in a while, when John felt troubled or stressed, he'd pick up the watch, flip it in his hands a few times as if it test the weight, and drop it casually onto the nearest hard surface (on the mantle next to the skull, next to him on the beige loveseat, to the left of his open laptop… the list went on). Sometimes, John's face would become blank a few moments, the epitome of a blank slate, as if he had left his own mind. Other times, he would wrinkle his nose as if he had a sneeze making its irritating appearance and cross his eyes in confusion. The most popular action of John's of late would be whenever they were on a grueling and taxingly long case, John would stare at the fob watch, wherever it was, deep in thought.

The most peculiar thing about it was that John seemed to have no conscious thought that he was doing it at all. Interesting.

Sherlock returned to the present, his fingers still glued together under his chin, his eyes still narrowed on the watch, the sun still heating his back through the sliver of window the curtains let in. He was no closer to solving the mystery of John's odd fob watch. Nothing made sense, especially since it was still warm. (There! He had touched it! And it hadn't yet cooled!)

Sherlock tugged at the roots of his hair with both hands, turning away from the watch with finality. His head throbbed; there was no logic to this at all! There was nothing he could connect it to, nothing he could use to explain how a broken watch had the ability to overheat! (At least, not without outside help, but no one had been placing it in boiling water or in the fireplace.)

His fingers twitched and he released the painful grip on his hair. He needed a nicotine patch.

He was just digging into the toe of the Persian slipper next to the charcoal fire pokers when John's steps clambered up the stairs, staggering, no doubt, due to the numerous amounts of grocery bags he liked to carry without aid. Sherlock smirked to himself—by the slowness of his steps and the amount of time spent on each foot, Sherlock deduced John was carrying seven bags.

"Don't mind me," John muttered to as he dragged his feet to the kitchen. The plastic bags swished and crinkled as John steadied himself. "Just got the shop on my own. Why would I need help putting them away?"

Sherlock turned, nicotine patch happily feeding his blood stream, and his smirk dropped. Eight bags. Damn.

The plastic crinkled again, this time from the kitchen, and the rolling of the drawers was heard as was the creak of the cupboards as John opened them to settle his purchases within, sometimes with a huff of breath (usually made when John had to reach above his unfortunate lack of height), sometimes with a grunt of disgust (ah, he must have found the bees in the raspberry preserves). Sherlock rounded the green doors leading to the kitchen quickly, settling himself with his shoulder resting on the door. John would _not_ be throwing those out.

John's back was to Sherlock as he rummaged through a bag with its contents (boxes—most likely uncooked noodles or a quick meal mix, going by the dimensions…) creating sharp, stretched corners of the grey plastic. He pulled out a store-sectioned package of meat, and Sherlock wondered whether John would be making risotto with it.

"There isn't anything in the fridge I should know about?" John asked without looking up from his task.

"No." _Yes._

"Oh, good," John said, relieved. He opened the fridge door, paused, and shut it again.

Sherlock forced down his urge to smile. "What is it?"

John shuddered and turned to face Sherlock. His expression was oddly blank. "You put the rest away."

This had not been a part of Sherlock's plan. His urge to smile was immediately squashed as John thrust the package of meat into his hands. "What?"

John stared at Sherlock, his head tilted up so he could properly look him in the eyes. His face was still devoid of any expression, though he shuddered again. "I don't know what I just saw, and I don't _want _to know," he said, and finally Sherlock caught a reaction: there lingered a smattering of horror and something beyond revulsion in the corner of John's eyes, "but I do know I need a shower. You got the rest of the shop, yeah?"

John didn't give Sherlock a chance to explain before he pushed past him, and Sherlock wrinkled his nose. He sniffed again (floral, not bitter or remotely sweet, clean but not fresh or crisp), receiving an odd look from John, before he muttered, "Lavender."

John turned on his heel, slightly panicked, when everything clicked in Sherlock's head.

"Lavender, John!" he shouted in disbelief, throwing his hands in the air. He momentarily forgot about the package of meat and it flew over his shoulder and landed somewhere near the fireplace. John cringed and turned, wearing an expression like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Really? I thought you fired your therapist! Clever, trying to cover it with a trip to Tesco's, waiting until we actually needed groceries to make an appointment, but I thought it was already established you didn't need that imbecile anymore!"

"How do you know I wasn't just visiting Sarah?" John countered mildly. "Me and her—"

"Her and I," Sherlock corrected automatically in a growl.

"—are still friends," John continued as if he hadn't heard Sherlock (the nerve of his friend!), "and women wear odd things like that."

"There's only one place in the entire city of London that leaves you smelling like that," Sherlock sneered. John dared undermine his intelligence? Who did he think Sherlock was? Anderson? It was inexplicable! John didn't need therapy—he was mentally stable and emotionally strong. Why would John feel he needed to go back to that idiotic woman?

John self-consciously lifted the collar of his sweater and sniffed delicately. "You're right," he grimaced, "it's worse than that time we were stuck in the sewers. I probably should burn these before I wash."

"John."

There must have been something in his expression (damn), for John paused in his ascent to his bedroom and gave a reassuring smile. "It's fine, Sherlock. It was one trip. She's still an idiot."

Sherlock nodded, and John continued his trek to the shower. He then looked down to where the meat package lay on its front, red juice seeping from the lines of the plastic wrap and swirling into the faded wood by the fireplace (luckily, it had not landed on one of their chairs—though he really wouldn't mind, he was positive both John and Mrs. Hudson would have his head for the mistake). He glared at it as if it were the meat's fault he was to put the rest of the shop away. Sherlock's gaze traveled upwards, transferring his glare to the fob watch. It glittered innocently from its position next to the hooked hunting knife, and Sherlock stalked to the Persian slipper again. He would need another nicotine patch if he was to get this done and keep his sanity.


	3. Miracle Work 2

3

By the time John came down the stairs, promptly dressed in clothes that smelled of that pleasant detergent Mrs. Hudson buys for them every once in a blue moon, his hair damp and sticking in random directions by toweling it dry, he found Sherlock Holmes in all his sulking glory slouched in his leather armchair, his fingertips holding up his chin as he stared at the mantle deep in thought.

As this was normal behavior for his mad friend, John just padded his way to the kitchen, trying not to think too hard about the round stain by the hearth of the fireplace, and sighed upon seeing the shop was still not put away, even though he _specifically_ told Sherlock to do the job. He clenched his fists and shook his head, keeping the tension from collecting in the middle of his back. Sherlock would either ignore him or quirk his eyebrow, amused. With the housework, getting Sherlock to lift a finger was a lost cause.

_Well, _John thought as he judiciously picked his way around Sherlock's experiments (which were notably much more tolerable to whatever was going on in the fridge); _at least Sherlock got them out of the bag_.

Seeing as Sherlock wasn't going to finish, John inhaled a quick, irritated breath and grasped onto the nearest box. There wasn't much left to put in the cabinets, anyway.

Just as John collected the plastic bags and rolled them together to place under the sink (storage for later use—mainly to tie up Sherlock's nasty experiments to toss so it wouldn't stink up their trash), there was a scrape of wood on wood as Sherlock pushed himself from his chair, the rustle of his trousers as he walked and the click of his heels, dulled by Mrs. Hudson's expensive red carpet.

"Going somewhere?" John asked, straightening as he shut a cabinet door closed. It creaked slightly under his hand.

"Case," was Sherlock's distant, monosyllabic reply. "Come along, John."

Sherlock's footsteps were already on the staircase, rapidly moving down and away, and, alarmed, John shouted out, "Hang on! Let me get my shoes on!"

Not even two minutes passed when John deemed himself adequately dressed, and he found Sherlock basically vibrating by the door frame, one gloved hand waiting on the blotted, golden doorknob as he stared impatiently into the distance, his brilliant mind worlds away and already on the case.

"Ready?" John asked his friend.

Sherlock wrenched the door open. "Of course I am, John," he said haughtily, flipping the collar of his long coat up to draw a parallel with his cheekbones (something John had long suspected he did for the purpose of looking cool), "though your motor functions seem to have adopted the sluggish pace of Anderson's brain…" his voice trailed off as it always did when something caught his immediate interest, and John jumped when he realized Sherlock's penetrating gaze was locked on him, the pale eyes glittering blue gems as they bored ruthlessly to John's midsection.

John fidgeted. Though he was used to being constantly taken apart by Sherlock's deductions, he found this version of Sherlock's intense scrutiny incessantly creepy. "Uh… can I help you?"

His friend blinked a few times and straightened, the intense expression of his face smoothed out, though the glittering stare did not lessen. "There, in your hands."

John looked down at his fingers, seeing the familiar rivets and callouses that marred his palms and fingertips, the thin scars from his active duty in Afghanistan. Clever fingers (though not as clever as Sherlock's) connected to a broad palm in which he could count the years in every line. There was a shiny, pinkish burn on his right pinky finger from when Sherlock made him accidentally spill hot water a few days ago. Sturdy, healing, doctor's hands, hardened with years of shooting practice—he didn't see anything extraordinary about them. He looked up at Sherlock, confused. "What?"

The glittering interest increased, and a frown worked about his jaw. "You're holding a watch, John." Sherlock sounded odd: his voice was low and held the same almost childlike quality it adopted when he realized he didn't do something socially correct.

"Ah, so I am," John remarked as he looked down. He didn't need to take that with him. With a shrug, he tossed it to the nearest table. Feeling light-hearted all of a sudden, John smiled and walked passed Sherlock, the comforting, chilled weight of his firearm against his lower back. "Shall we?"

John could still feel Sherlock's penetrating gaze on his back as the door shut behind them.

Xx-{X}-xX

Midday had always seemed an odd time for a crime scene… at least to John, who had always imagined murders to be done in the shadows of the night, away from the flow of daily life, hidden away like the horrible secret it was. To John, crime scenes always held the appeal of mystery lurking at every corner, the anticipation of the Game buzzing at every clue, given or otherwise.

(If Sherlock could hear his thoughts right now, he would have called John a sentimental fool, rolling his eyes and insulting his blog, which, interestingly enough, got a lot more viewers than Sherlock's—take _that_ you jealous bastard.)

And yet this particular crime scene refused to meet John's standards of what it would be in its most perfect form: it was _not_ a chilled night, so cold John would have to blow into cupped hands in order to keep his finger joints from locking up (in fact, it was the middle of the afternoon, during the time he would force Sherlock to go get dim sum or Italian for dinner, and daylight still clung to the tops of the buildings around him); it was _not _at a flat where the body was found within the confines of locked doors and windows (no, this crime scene was in the suburbs on the outskirts of London, where it barely fell within jurisdiction of Scotland Yard). Each cookie-cutter house, though a little on the small side, was pleasant enough, if he avoided the glaring whiteness of the side paneling, which were so bright he had to hold a hand over his brow for protection. He supposed, should the London weather behave as it should with its normal grey overcast skies, the color of the houses would be much more pleasant. Red and blue lights alternated their occupation along the walls of house number six, police cars angled toward the narrow driveway, curious civilians craning their necks from their barred entrance of the crime scene, sticking their noses in the air for a better look (and perhaps for something new to talk about).

Sherlock strode gracefully from the cab the moment its tires slowed enough on the faded pavement, leaving John to pay the fare from his thin wallet (one supposed having two jobs would make him richer than he actually was. Unfortunately, being an assistant to Sherlock Holmes meant chipping in the pay for the costs, which seemed to subtract considerably from his funds). He offered the cabbie an apologetic smile before he jogged to Sherlock's side, pushing his way past the civilians crowded at the yellow police tape. A predominantly blonde woman with a ruddy face and large haunches had the gall to pull John back by the collar of his shirt as he ducked underneath the tape, and only allowed him passage after a calm explanation from him and an oddly fierce look from Sherlock. It was only a matter of time before they were stopped again.

"I see the hobby thing didn't work out," Donovan said, her arms crossed over her chest and a sly look cast John's way. She pushed herself from her half-sitting position on the hood of a police car, flattening her skirt with a brush of her palms as she came over to stop Sherlock's passage. The look on Sherlock's face was growing more impatient, but Donovan merely ignored him, choosing to smile knowingly at John. "Couldn't find a book you liked? How about the art gallery? There's always something of worth to look at… but I suppose you fancy something else…"

John had heard enough of these innuendos that he was no longer embarrassed by them; irritation collected at his brow, and though he longed to tilt his head back and shout to the heavens that he wasn't gay, he merely shoved it into a sigh. "Hello, Sally," he said with a false cheerfulness, "I've had a good day, thanks for asking. I case you were wondering, I _have_ read a book recently, and I found it quite enjoyable. May we please go to the crime scene, now?"

Sherlock let out a huff of breath that John took to be an appreciative laugh. Donovan's lips thinned.

"When _I'm _Detective Inspector," she said, her ringlets frizzing in tight collections over her head, "I won't let either of you within two miles of _my_ crime scene."

"It's good that's a long time coming, then, _Sergeant_," Sherlock replied absently, bending his knees and tilting his head to get a better look at the ground beneath the police cruisers, which seemed dirtier than the rest of the asphalt. John had long given up trying to understand his friend's complete process. Sherlock spun once, his coat fanning out and whipping around his knees, and returned his sharp gaze to Donovan. "And by the way you haven't changed clothes in at least two days" (here, John wrinkled his nose at her lack of proper hygiene while Sherlock continued in the monotone he saved especially for deductions) "You're doing a bang-up job. Overtime?" His tone was slightly playful. "No, more likely that you and Anderson worked _extra_ hard in the forensics department last night. Excellent work, Donovan," Sherlock sneered, his lip curling delicately, "by the rate you're going, you'll make Constable in no time."

Though her skin was usually a dulled cocoa brown, Donovan was white with fury. Her knuckles were sharp as the skin on her hands pulled tight, forming blocky fists on each side of her. She seemed at a loss for words.

Sherlock smirked. "Good day, Sergeant Donovan. While we're doing your job for you, I'll let Lestrade know of your ominous plans to replace him."

With a last flourish of his coat, Sherlock turned on his heel and strode towards the house. John dithered a moment; Sherlock's parting comment had seemed a little harsh—he knew Donovan respected Lestrade, as did most of the officers at Scotland Yard, but she looked too peeved to be placated by whatever John could have said to her. He took off after Sherlock, glancing once behind him. Donovan, though still furious, was now speaking into the walkie-talkie attached to her shoulder, shooing the pedestrians away from the police tape. John hoped she wouldn't take the comment seriously; Sherlock was only trying to rile her up.

"Charming, mate," John commented mildly, matching stride with Sherlock as they passed officers in both police hats and in the thin, blue forensics scrubs, holding clipboards and conversations over empty evidence bags. "Well done."

Sherlock's entire face seemed to pull down as he expressed his disgust. "Oh, please, she made it so _obvious_ that she and Anderson shared a coroner's bed. Luckily for the rest of us it didn't already contain an occupant." Sherlock bounded up the shallow steps to the front porch where the small but charming front door. Both he and John paused in their journey to let a few officers pass; John nodded to those he recognized from pub nights; Sherlock stood stiffly, as if staying completely still would discourage people from touching him.

"You know, one of these days, she's just not going to let us through," John mused. "She'll probably just shoot us. She has a gun license, you know."

Sherlock made a grunt of disgust. "Donovan couldn't hit a target if it were stationary and three feet in front of her."

John didn't know anything about that, nor had he ever seen Sergeant Donovan train a gun on any suspect to judge for himself. Instead, John left it as a question (and a possible scenario) to debate with later and returned to the previous conversation at hand, "Everyone has a different way of dealing with stress."

"But with _sex?_" The face Sherlock made at the word was spectacular, and John wished he had taken a picture of it to send to Mycroft. He always felt the elder Holmes needed a good laugh or two every once in a while.

John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Says the man who shoots at the walls when he's bored."

Sherlock huffed—this time a noise insulted instead of an appreciative gesture—and refused to say anything more. Besides, the parade of police officers had finally passed through, most likely leaving the house nearly empty, creating a space for Sherlock and John to enter the house. Instantly, heat clawed up John's arms and the back of his neck, and he wished he hadn't worn his jacket. The hallway was such a tight squeeze he and Sherlock were unable to walk next to each other, not with the clutter of glass tables and its many breakable trinkets, including a glass swan, a miniature version of a Maplewood grandfather clock (which ticked with a consistency that suggested its seconds were a little faster than should be acceptable), and a porcelain figurine of an owl with its large head tilted to the side, its amber eyes wide with wisdom, its feathered face open with curiosity. Various paintings covered almost every inch of the white walls, blazing color and contrasting scenes, depicting everything from sad clowns with cleverly painted faces and black triangles nicked underneath their eyes to the grinning homeless swathed in filthy rags, holding, to John's increasing horror, what looked to be a beating heart in their upturned palms.

The overall effect of the narrow hallway was overwhelming; John tugged at the back of his collar to let a bead of sweat trickle to the middle of his spine. Even Sherlock pulled his coat more tightly around himself to avoid knocking anything over. Tension itched underneath John's skin, and he swore loudly went his bad leg banged into the corner of the last table. Luckily, nothing fell, but a small cat figurine rattled.

The hallway opened up to a large, bare room, making John wonder if the owner had lost heart after completing the cubby hole museum of a hallway. John glanced once at the bland kitchen, which was equipped with all the essentials and a cheap dining table, before following Sherlock into a blank room with faded oak floorboards and a singular painting of a field over a blackened fireplace. Though Sherlock would have caught more history about this room from nearly invisible scuff marks on the floors and walls, John was more interested in the only man standing in the room, his hands tucked into the pockets of his navy police jacket as he rocked back on his heels.

"Took you two long enough," Detective Inspector Lestrade remarked, his voice over-tired and gravelly, his breath bitter with cheap coffee. His back was to the window, which let in a friendly dusting of light over his silvery hair and to every object within its reach.

"John insisted on getting the shop first," Sherlock sniffed as he unbuttoned his heavy Belstaff coat.

"You know, it would have gone a lot faster had you helped, you lazy sod," John said without malice. He turned to Lestrade, "He sat on his ass and bemoaned the creativity of the criminal classes…" at Sherlock's pointed look, John amended, "Or lack thereof."

In his tired state, stubble ghosting the line of his jaw and bruise-like shadows underneath his dark eyes, Lestrade quirked a smile.

Sherlock acted as if John hadn't spoken: "Lestrade, you interrupted my very intricate, very important thinking time. This had better be important."

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's huffing and impatient attitude, and at his most obvious lie; what could he have been _possibly_ thinking about? They didn't have any cases on, nor did Moriarty drop a complex (and frankly disturbing) puzzle on their doorstep. The experiments Sherlock was concocting John felt were routine or experiments from the past—something for Sherlock to conduct for the sake of boosting his already inflated ego; they were mostly done to tell Sherlock that he again was brilliant in all synonyms of the word because he was correct the first time.

Lestrade, however, cleared his throat and sobered by dropping his smile, running a weary hand through his silvery hair. "Right," he told himself, then repeated the word once more, "Right. Got a call about an hour ago. Mrs. Wilcox was in hysterics… still is, now that I think about it." His palm scrubbed down his face. "She's the one who found her husband… or, at least we think it's her husband…"

"Hold on," John said. He wasn't sure he liked what Lestrade's words implied. "You _think _it's her husband?"

The toe of Lestrade's right foot scuffed uncomfortably against the floor. "Well, it's kind of hard to tell," he said at last, and Sherlock's head tilted in interest. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Where?" Sherlock's voice was deep and quick like a crack of thunder.

Lestrade nodded to his right, where a set of narrow, even steps lay against the wall. "Upstairs."

They followed Lestrade up to the second floor, which was only one room: like the hallway, it had faded and only slightly warped hardwood floors, but the walls were blissfully decrepit of any decoration at all. The wallpaper, though of a load of ugly, wilting flowers, was artfully put on, creases and tears a non-existent entity all together. A small plasma television sat on a box in the far corner of the room, where two couches were angled toward the black screen. But John froze in his tracks when his eyes trailed down from the shaded window to the floor, not sure whether he should release this morning's tea and biscuits from his quickly souring stomach or step closer to get a better look.

At first, it appeared to be a small, flesh colored blanket, but that idea was immediately placed with a more appropriate 'What the Hell Is That?' when he realized the sagging, too-flat-to-be-natural blanket was being held together by the threads of a plaid shirt and the tatters of what should have been a pair of jeans.

"Oh my God," John muttered, taking a step forward when he realized exactly what he was looking at. "Oh my God."

It was a man, or what used to be a man, except John could see right through the folds of skin, oddly smooth as it folded in on itself, conforming to the shapeless form of the floor as it lay open, bare for anyone to see that he was completely empty. This picture was entirely wonrg, and even in his shocked state, John saw the man was missing all of his vitals; there wasn't even a _skeleton_ in that body (if one could even call it that). It was flat except for a few air bubbles trapped in the fingertips; it was like a balloon that had deflated.

John looked at Sherlock, impressed against his will despite how disgusting the remains were; how in the hell was this done? How had the killer gotten the bones, muscle, and organs out of the skin so completely and without spilling any bodily fluids on the floor?

Sherlock looked at John, his eyes bright with the promise of a game, before narrowing his vision to the skin in the room, taking slow, deliberate steps that creaked along with the warped floorboards, one hand forward as if he could use it to scan for life forms. His eyes roamed once around the room, taking in tiny details, keeping those that were relevant and those that were not, before zoning in on the body itself.

"Where did the rest of him go?" John asked no one in particular. Sherlock bent over the pile of flesh, crouching low to the ground with his magnifying glass pressed to his eye, his long coat fanning out behind him. Sherlock's movements were controlled and quick as he examined every inch, every wrinkle, every fold of what used to be Mr. Wilcox, muttering quietly to himself. Every once in a while, Sherlock would pause as if puzzled, but then would seem to mentally shake himself as he continued along the same tangent of energy that he had started with.

Lestrade shrugged. "Don't know," he said with resignation, "We checked all the closets and rooms, the basement… we even checked every skip within a half-mile. We haven't heard sight or sound of a skinless body." Lestrade exhaled heavily. "It's a real doozy. I don't know what to make of it, nor what to put into my report other than the fact that this guy's a sick bastard."

He looked away from the body and down to the opposite corner of the room—John didn't blame him. He didn't think _he_ could stand to look at the body, either, especially now that Sherlock had now progressed to shamelessly lifting the folds of skin with a pen only to rearrange it to his liking.

After a little while of silence and ignoring the sickening smacking sound of flesh as it folded in on itself, Lestrade cleared his throat. "Sherlock, it's been five minutes," he said reluctantly, looking at the watch on his wrist with something akin to regret, "I'll need everything you've got."

Sherlock inhaled deeply one last time, snapped his pocket magnifying glass shut, and stood in one fluid motion, something John didn't think he could accomplish even if he'd had ten years of ballet lessons under his belt (which he didn't have, nor want) and a large glass of whiskey in his gullet (which he _did_ want, but sadly, did not have). "What do we have here?" Sherlock asked, though the tone of his voice strongly suggested it wasn't a question at all. "A pile of slag, and his clothes. His haircut—short, but with some give—unlike John's strictly even military issued length, uniform and no imagination—"

"What does my hair have to do with anything, Sherlock?" John asked, slightly annoyed and running a hand over the blonde bristles.

"—this means Mr. Wilcox had an office job, most likely in sales. He can't work for the government because he's not paid enough for that—his house accounts for that," Sherlock continued within the same breath, apparently not having heard John, "and the callouses on his fingertips showed he worked on the computer often, but he is not as pale as the stereotypical desk worker—see the tan on his arms and neck? It's not anywhere else on his body. So Mr. Wilcox was an outdoorsman, eating outside when he can, going north to hunt with his brother—yes, of course he had a brother… don't you see his earlobes? Imbeciles, the lot of you." Sherlock's bright eyes shifted over and down, and he shoved the magnifying glass within the deep folds of his long coat. "Obviously, Mr. Wilcox didn't have work today—he was helping his wife pack up the rest of the house. They're moving somewhere, most likely to a flat as they both don't make enough money to move somewhere more costly, but why on earth they wouldn't pack up their repulsive delicacies first is an idiocy beyond what I can comprehend."

Lestrade blinked. "Right. Yeah." He patted his pockets, looking to the side. "Let me just get a pen and pad to write all that down…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and strolled from the body, pulling gloves onto his hands. "We're done here, John. Lunch? I spotted an Indian restaurant not two blocks from here…"

Lestrade looked up from the inspection of his pockets and exclaimed, "But you haven't given us any leads!"

The expression on Sherlock's face froze as he stilled on his way out the door, and when he turned, his face was carefully blank. "I require more data to make a conclusive verdict."

Lestrade looked at him, then rubbed at his face tiredly. "Yeah, alright. I'll call you when the coroner's report comes in."

Sherlock nodded, and John followed him onto the street. When they were a considerable distance from the crime scene and listening ears (point to Donovan, who always seemed to edge her nose closer into their business when Sherlock and John conversed to themselves off to the side), John chanced a glance to his friend. Sherlock was staring straight ahead, his eyes glazed over in thought, a small wrinkle between his eyebrows as they furrowed into a near straight line; Sherlock looked troubled.

"You have no idea, do you?" John asked mildly.

"Hmm?" Sherlock hummed eloquently, sounding like a computer as it warmed up to operating speed as he exited his Mind Palace.

"About Mr. Wilcox," John clarified, checking the narrow road before allowing Sherlock, who was prone to run onto a street of speeding cars (Exhibit A: the first day they met, before embarking on a mad chase crafted solely for the purpose of getting rid of John's limp—that sneaky bastard). John cleared his throat. "You have no idea what happened to him."

"It just doesn't make any sense!" Sherlock burst out vehemently, as if he had been waiting to say it ever since they entered Mr. Wilcox's odd home. His arms lifted in indignation, reaching toward the sky, narrowly missing an old woman and a hobbly old man with glasses, both who looked at Sherlock as if he needed a trip to Bedlam. John smiled apologetically at them, but Sherlock went on, not having noticed the old, scandalized couple, "There aren't any unevenness of nicks in the skin to suggest that it's been sheared off by _any _tool—the skin's much too clean to have been cut, sawed, scraped, chewed—"

"That's gross, Sherlock," John interjected, wrinkling his nose at the mental image that unwillingly came up at the last recommendation.

"Oh, grow up, John, you're a soldier," Sherlock said scathingly, "You once told me that you were a 'very good' doctor—and that implies that you've seen it all."

"I apologize if my lack of desire to convert to cannibalism displeases you, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John grinned up at him. "Actually, I'm quite relieved, but that's beside the point." The stress returned to the subtle lines on his forehead, a barely visible chisel in the hard granite of his face. "No, John, you don't understand—this murder was completely _wrong_. There was no blood on the floor, in the bathroom or the kitchen, not even traces of blood on the inside layer of the skin—_imagine_ the incredibly meticulous cleaning the murderer would have had to do. It's _perfectly_ bereft of any blood—not a single drop. It's almost as if Mr. Wilcox didn't have any blood in the first place." Sherlock stopped in his tracks, grabbing John's arm so he could focus on his face as if this were the most important part. "John, this should have been a messy job. So why wasn't it?"

John felt his brain stop and start up in multiple stuttering movements, but he wasn't a genius, so he gave it his best shot: "He… could have been killed somewhere else and brought back to his home?"

Sherlock shook his head minutely in disgust and resumed their route to the restaurant, returning his gloved hands to his pockets. "Improbable. Why skin a man so artfully and leave him for his wife to find? Could be a message, but I find this highly unlikely as both Mr. and Mrs. Wilcox were unimportant and entirely unconnected to any criminal organization—if they had, their bank accounts would show unexplained paychecks and their house would not be on the bad end of London. I find it much more probable that Mr. Wilcox was killed in his home." His lips tightened in irascibility. "What I would _really _like explained is how the killer did this without any sign of struggle or any incriminating evidence left behind."

"How about a tarp?" John suggested.

"No, no," Sherlock said absently, his eyes narrowing at something in the distance. John looked that way as well, but he couldn't see anything else but the throng of pedestrians crossing the walk and the streetlights blaring their simple messages in round blurs of red and green. "There weren't any markings on the floor to suggest a tarp and been held down, nor were there any disposed of in any of the skips nearby." His voice quieted and John had to strain his ears to hear, "It's like the man took his skin off like a suit and walked away."

Sherlock then began muttering to himself, and John caught words like "impossible" and "shouldn't have happened" before tuning his friend out in favor of the kindly sounds of metal cutlery biting into ceramic plates, the light screech of a knife as it hit something more than just lamb, the sloshing of liquid as it filled glass cups in a downwards spiral. John let the kindly conversations wash over him and mouth-watering spices enter his senses as he nudged Sherlock in the direction of the Indian restaurant. John was positive, as Sherlock threw him a vaguely irritated look, that Sherlock would have continued walking the streets of London without stopping for lunch, very much in a daze of recreating crime scenes and without any inkling of the danger that could potentially be around him. Besides, John wasn't going anywhere on an empty stomach.

Xx-{X}-xX

"What the hell are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded as he yanked the door to 221B Baker Street open about an hour after they had left the crime scene. It creaked shortly on its hinges in protest as it slammed against the wall, revealing his very nosy, very imposing brother, who merely gave a lilting smirk in his and John's direction, raising his umbrella in a mock salute before taking John's seat, crinkling his previously impeccably ironed grey suit (ah, he must have come from a meeting with the Prime Minister—it wouldn't do to have even one hair out of place, and indeed Mycroft had his gingery strands slicked back and away from his high forehead. One must look his very best while manipulating the fools into doing one's bidding).

"It is good to see you as well, dear brother," Mycroft sighed, curling his long fingers over the handle of his umbrella (interesting—usually this is a form of stress or nervousness, but what on Earth could possibly be stressing his brother out in such a manner?). When Sherlock shifted his sight to see the whole of Mycroft's face better, raising an eyebrow in question, Mycroft immediately stopped the action and let the umbrella fall to a slant against the armchair. Instead, Mycroft sat back, clasped his hands over his crossed knee, and forced a smile to the left of Sherlock. "Hello, John."

"Mycroft," John nodded politely. "Tea?"

Mycroft lifted his chin. "Please."

John nodded, sent Sherlock a look he couldn't interpret, and trotted through the green opaque doors to their kitchen. Almost instantly the tinkering of their kettle and the chipped set of china could be heard, and water gurgled through the nozzle, splashing metallically against the side of the teapot.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock muttered, shucking his coat from his shoulders before throwing it over the back of his chair. For something to look at other than his brother's large nose, Sherlock fished his cell phone from his pocket and skimmed through his text messages. Damn. Lestrade was being slow again.

"I admit this is not a social gathering—ah, thank you John," Mycroft said appreciatively as he took a steaming cup from the good doctor. John nodded with a cordial smile (something Sherlock believed whole heartedly his brother did not deserve) before handing Sherlock his own cup, made to his liking (sweet and milky, unlike his coffee). Sherlock stared into the swirling steam as he slowly sunk into his green leather chair, abstractedly noting how John pursed his lips at Mycroft's seating arrangement as he sat himself into the couch against the wall, sipping at his tea appreciatively.

"Is it ever?" Sherlock remarked, setting his tea aside. He had just eaten not ten minutes ago, and he already felt his thought process slowing down.

Mycroft sent him an annoyed glance over his tea cup, but didn't say anything in return. Good. The pompous, corpulent dictator needed to learn to be less imposing.

Unfortunately, John was in a helpful mood. "What's this all about?"

With a dramatic air, Mycroft exhaled and set his tea cup so carefully upon the saucer it dared not make a noise and placed it on the nearest table, standing tall, his too large suit hanging off him to give the illusion that he was losing weight (but Sherlock wasn't fooled—Mycroft had at least three brownies before he came to Baker Street, given the crumbs clinging to his right sleeve and tie, the shiny smears of grease that had not quite vanished when he had wiped his fingers along the side of his pants). "It has come to my attention that you two have been placed on the Wilcox case," he said at last, and anger itched underneath Sherlock's skin, locking his jaw and narrowing his eyes as he realized Mycroft's true intentions even before he said them himself.

"No." This word was uttered so coldly and in such a low tone it had paused the elder Holmes in his tracks.

"What did you say to me?" Mycroft asked softly, so softly, but there was nothing soft in the quiet storm of his pale eyes.

"I said, no," Sherlock repeated, casting his glance to the file papers on the table only a few feet away from him. "This is _my_ case. I intend to solve it. Good-day, Mycroft."

A tick worked in Mycroft's jaw. "Just because this case is _interesting_," he sneered, "doesn't make it your case. There are people with more impressive credentials—" (here Sherlock scoffed, and Mycroft tried a different tactic) "Perhaps you can make him see reason, John."

Both he and Mycroft looked to the couch, where John was blandly minding his own business, trying his best to make himself seem as small and unassuming as possible, a newspaper open on his lap (something Sherlock had already scoured through before Lestrade called—front page news: a lost girl found in the park after a week's disappearance—dull, surprised it took them that long; comic section—idiotic and dull, made for fools like Anderson who can't even put his shoes on the right feet; sports section: ah, the London Wasps won another game—dull, but John would have enjoyed it) as he sipped at his tea, smacking his lips. Sensing their stare, he glanced at them with one eye over his tea, but didn't say anything; John didn't seem to want any part of their discussion (but surely John would want to keep this case—Sherlock had seen the interested glean in his eye when he had seen the crime, even if it went against John's stubborn moral code).

"John," Mycroft said, a hint of warning in his voice.

With an exasperated, long-suffering sigh, John folded his newspaper in half and drained the rest of his tea. "Sherlock," he began, rubbing at his temple, "maybe we should sit this one out. There's this lovely set of armed robberies that…"

"Oh, not you, too!" Sherlock exclaimed, rounding on his traitorous friend. "For the last time, I told Lestrade that I don't do anything that's less than a seven."

"No," John said, the wrinkles in his forehead more prominent as his raised both of his eyebrows, "You said you wouldn't _leave the flat _for anything less than a seven. And you told me, not Lestrade. He doesn't know any better."

Annoyed, Sherlock waved his hand through the air as if to bat John's argument away. "Semantics. Armed robberies are dull. Serial killers are interesting."

"If we don't catch the robbers, they _could_ turn into killers," John pointed out.

"When that happens, Lestrade can text me."

Irritation walked its way across John's face, his eyelids covering the eyes minutely as they narrowed, the edges of his lips turning into a frown. He opened his mouth to retort, but Mycroft's curious and airy posh voice floated through the flat as easily as the flare from the setting afternoon sun through the windows, cutting through their conversation.

"Sherlock, where did you find this watch?"

Sherlock turned from his friend to tell Mycroft that it was none of his damned business, but before he could utter his rebuke, Sherlock caught the glint of something silvery in his brother's hand. Upon closer inspection, Mycroft was examining John's strange fob watch, and his expression was so barren of emotion, smoothed of every crinkled and fold, that even Sherlock's acute senses couldn't deduce anything from it.

Intrigued by his brother's odd reaction, Sherlock straightened and replied, "It came with John."

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see John look at him, but Sherlock didn't respond to his friend's silent inquiry. Something had flickered in Mycroft's eyes as he turned the silvery round object in one hand, admiring the glare the sun reflected off its partially tarnished surface. With the other hand, he twisted the nose of the umbrella into the ground. "John," he said without looking up, "where did you get this?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as curiosity completely washed away any thought or feeling he was having before. What did _Mycroft_ want with the watch? Did it once belong to some long lost prince Sherlock should have known but deleted for the sake of the Work? Was it a priceless collectable that was last seen at one of the corners of the Earth? But, no, these highly unlikely speculations (terrific: John's need to romanticize everything had rubbed off on him) did not match the unreadable expression on his brother's face. He couldn't help himself as he asked, "What, Mycroft? Do you recognize it?"

Sherlock had been ignored—it was as if his brother didn't hear him. Ah, perhaps he needed to speak louder and punctuate his sentences with the help of his trusty Stradivarius, something that had never failed to drive his brother away.

The incredulous expression on John's face was so strong it was comical. "What is up with you two and that watch?" he asked, cutting through Sherlock's near attempt to make his brother listen, "There's nothing special about it."

Mycroft's expression changed: the crow's feet dabbing at the corners of his eyes tightened and his lips were set in a way that made Sherlock uneasy. They were minute details, little tells a normal human being would have missed, but Sherlock Holmes was no ordinary human being. His brother knew something about that watch.

"John," Mycroft said, suspicion in his gaze as he roved his thumb over the watch's surface, "answer my question."

Bewildered, John heaved himself out of the sinking couch, his newspaper left forgotten by the last dregs of his tea, and limped over to where Mycroft stood. From the patronizing expression on John's open face, he could tell he was merely humoring the British Government as he pried the watch from Mycroft's hand, flipped it over once, and handed it back. During the entire spiel, Mycroft watched the former army doctor expectantly.

"I dunno," John finally said, "I've had it for as long as I can remember… since I was a little kid, at least. I have no idea why you and your brother are so interested in it."

Mycroft's knuckles whitened as his hand wrapped completely around the fob watch, briefly, before he released it and let the watch lie on the mantle. John watched him, bemused.

"So it's just a watch." Mycroft sounded disbelieving.

John smiled through his palpable confusion. "Just a watch," he agreed.

"Then what are all these markings for?" Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow.

The confusion stole over John's polite smile. "What markings?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, believing this to be one of John's least observant moments, but he paused to reconsider his action when something similar to fear (_fear!) _flickered in Mycroft's stony composition. Baffled, wondering exactly what could have caused this impossible change in reaction coupled with the contradiction in his memory files that told him Mycroft _never _got scared; he looked to his brother, trying to inquire with his most piercing gaze what could have caused this impossible bought of fright. Surely it was an overreaction: for all Sherlock knew, Mycroft could have received a text saying there would not be dacquoise with his dinner tonight.

Mycroft didn't look in his direction again. Instead, he pulled out his cell phone as if checking the time and hooked his umbrella on his sleeved forearm. There was a small, circular indent in Mrs. Hudson's thick and much abused rug from where the nose of his umbrella had rested. "Well, I must be going," Mycroft stated, slipping the phone into his pocket and striding purposefully toward the door. The exit was so abrupt that even John could find the certain wrongness in it. "I'll see you again, soon."

As Mycroft's steady, marching footsteps echoed through their narrow stairwell, the tapping of the brolly following every other thump, John looked to Sherlock, his azure eyes questioning.

"What was that all about?" John asked, his head turned towards the open door where the distant presence of his bother lingered. The door on the first floor opened, the free winds wailing through the landing, and when it closed, the presence disintegrated.

Sherlock merely shook his head, exasperated. His brother did so love to be dramatic, and he told John so.

John chuckled fleetingly, a side of his mouth lifting to define his incredulity. "Must be a genetic trait."

Sherlock slitted his eyes and raised his head, looking down at John to show his displeasure with what he had implied. John merely grinned, unimpressed, before collecting their tea cups from the room and trotting to the kitchen.

When the rush of water soothed over the flat like gauze over an open wound, Sherlock's phone trilled it's screeching, distinctive tone, letting him know he received a new text message. He instantly unlocked his phone to see it was from Lestrade:

[Bad news, Sherlock. Some blokes in suits took our files. We're no longer on the case.]

The yellow face on the wall mocked him; Sherlock hurled his phone at it.

Xx-{X}-xX

Mycroft Holmes always saw himself as a big brother before anything else… sometimes even before the British Government, but luckily, he hasn't had to choose between these two things that describe his life so entirely. It was the reason for the Level Three surveillance status (Active) over his brother and the good doctor, who Mycroft wasn't sure he liked or not. The good doctor was bland and ordinary, but he could often do extraordinary things. There was a reason, when he had met the man for the first time in that parking garage, he gave Doctor Watson a choice: the man would have made a decent addition to the Secret Service, and, perhaps, someone he could place an inkling of trust (he _had_ refused the money to spy on Sherlock after all, and he was a Queen and Country soldier through and through). It wasn't often someone impressed him, and John Watson, M.D., had done just that (managing Sherlock Holmes and actually _befriending_ him wasn't an easy feat—it was something Mycroft had believed a sad impossibility before the good doctor).

However, there were some aspects of the doctor that didn't appeal to Mycroft: his quick anger, his pawky sense of humor, and the glaring fact that he would always take his brother's side no matter what it would do for Dr. Watson's benefit (or lack thereof). Yet, because of John Watson, Mycroft didn't have to worry so much over his rebellious and thrill-seeking brother.

Of course, Mycroft still worried about Sherlock, who managed to create enemies with a single look. And Sherlock Holmes had managed to find someone as crazy as he was—an adrenaline junkie who knew how to fatally (and not fatally) shoot someone and stitch him up again with equal expertise. The combination was a destructive force, and the cases they create for themselves often gave Mycroft blinding headaches. Calls would come in the middle of the night from his Baker Street Watch team, and he would have to craft documents and delete some completely, pull evidence that would get the two men into huge trouble with the law (and though Mycroft was thankful John had a gun—it saved Sherlock countless times—it was a real pain making those bullets disappear).

Mycroft sighed. The things he would do to keep his brother happy. It didn't help Sherlock had always been so resentful.

It was night now, and he sat in the welcome silence of the Diogenes Club, left foot connected to right knee, hands lightly gripping the edges of the armrests, back sinking gleefully into the comfort of the chair. Mycroft closed his eyes. Had there been an outsider in the subtly regal atmosphere of the sitting room, he would believe Mycroft Holmes to be asleep. Though he was entirely relaxed, his body shutting down part by part, his mind continued to run, files tightening with every edit or change in detail, organizing his thoughts of the day into tasks for tomorrow in order of importance, cost, and the amount of schmoozing he would have to do. Still, these were only small tasks, set aside as soft background noise as he concentrated solely on one blaring problem, torn between the decision that would either protect the world from all outside harm and make his brother terribly unhappy, or put the world at risk and have his brother live in an ignorant bliss.

Mycroft felt his right pinky finger twitch. The answer was simple when he lined it up as such, and yet he was hesitant.

It was the fob watch that had worried Mycroft Holmes; because of his contacts with Torchwood and UNIT, he recognized the markings on the watch (alien language: Gallifreyan—untranslatable by anything on Earth, and possibly in the universe), knew that it was a native possession of a Time Lord (dangerous Level Five species, only one in the existence of the universe—contact Torchwood London immediately). The files on extraterrestrial life were secure, even from him, and the only knowledge he received was only what he needed to know. This he was surprisingly okay with, though it made him grit his teeth in the beginning; who were _they_ to tell him what he can and cannot know? But he found he was busy enough without the threatening thoughts of uncontrollable dictators and armies only light years away—it was often easier to forget about inconsistencies such as these.

Mycroft didn't know what the watch did or how it worked—he was only told one had caused an unspeakable year that no longer existed (how this was possible or how his contacts even _knew _about this year, Mycroft wasn't sure he wanted to know), and that the next humanoid-shaped thing to have one could potentially create a second hell on Earth.

In short, the fob watch was bad news. It only made sense to turn John Watson in.

The things Torchwood would do to John were enough to make Mycroft Holmes stifle a shudder, but if Time Lords were dangerous to Earth, it was best to turn them in when they were most vulnerable: when they didn't even know they were dangerous themselves.

Mycroft pressed his fingertips to his lips, the bottoms of his palms touching as he rested his elbows on the armrests. He had a choice to make: if he took John away, Sherlock would be upset (check: possibly murderous—may want to tighten security around himself on the small probability that his brother found out he was behind the disappearance of his best friend), but he and the countless other civilians on this unfortunate planet would be safe from the madness that lied within John Hamish Watson. Or, he could leave the both of them alone, a black hole in his security. Was his brother's safety worth the unforgiveable blame his brother would place on him for the whole of eternity?

Mind made, Mycroft opened his eyes to survey his surroundings. He sat in a long rectangular room, vastly open with large windows (now tinted with the dark smearing fog that covered the night stars) and inviting, scarlet chairs (practical, comfortable, expensive, and fashionable). The crescent moon reflected blue square-like shadows that stretched from the trim of the windowsill to the floor, highlighting a few glinting, golden frames of the paintings, making the titles of each dusty book on the shelves only partially easier to read. Newspaper were strewn over the tables, half-forgotten, many covered with coffee-stains rims, a tea tray, of a pair of reading glasses. The others had left the room long ago, and for that, Mycroft was grateful; the tinkling of tea cups on their saucers and the nearly inaudible slurping of tea would have driven him insane.

Pressing a button that was stiff with disuse, Mycroft held his phone up to his ear, the cool speaker pressed against the thin skin.

"Yes, sir?" inquired a deep, calm voice. The words were professional and clipped, clear of all emotion.

"Activate Protocol Fourteen-B," Mycroft said without hesitation.

There was a very slight pause—an indecisive breath, a reluctance that was barely hinted at, but it was there. "Sir," the deep voice—Agent Jones—replied, and Mycroft felt the chill of anger creep slowly along his back, "you said Dr. Watson was a high priority subject, a man with equal status to Sherlock Holmes, and to activate that protocol would—"

"Activate the protocol," Mycroft repeated, "That is an order."

"But, sir!" Agent Jones exclaimed, surprise evident in his voice, "Dr. Watson is not a threat. You said so yourself!"

Mycroft felt his vocal chords ice over in fury; he did not believe Agent Jones, who had been in his service for nearly eight years, would be giving him trouble such as this. "Protocol Fourteen-B, Jones. Take him to the Torchwood Institute in London, not the underground M16 facilities."

There was another pause, this one different than before as Jones realized his mistake. "Yes, sir," he said at last, swallowing heavily. Mycroft ended the call and pocketed his phone, placing his clasped hands on his lap as he sat in darkness and silence. After Jones completes this assignment, Mycroft is going to dismiss him from further services—there is no room for mistakes or hesitation when it comes to his brother.


	4. Miracle Work 3

**Sigh. Does anyone read author's notes anymore? They usually hold some importance. Oh well.**

**This is an AU story. I have fixed the DW timeline to fit in with the plot of this story. FOR THE SAKE OF THIS STORY, there will be changes. Hopefully, this list of events will help clear things up. I apologize for being unclear in the first place.**

**^Canary Wharf destroyed.**

**^Canary Wharf rebuilt.**

**^London Institute re-established by some bloke named Marigold (OC).**

**^Harkness separates Cardiff Institute from the branch to make competing company. Both companies often called for jobs, but London mainly deals with those in London while Cardiff mainly goes elsewhere. Both are consulted for alien technology. Cardiff is more moral, London doesn't frankly give a damn about what species they piss off. London is concerned mainly with making scientific progress.**

**^The year that never was.**

**^Harkness starts petition to shut London down. It's a rough, political mumbo-jumbo, and it isn't successful.**

**^Harkness and Marigold get into fight.**

**^Harkness banned from all London jobs.**

**Hopefully that clears up any confusion! And don't worry, me revealing this information does not give anything away. I truly am sorry. Now on with the chapter!**

* * *

4

_Run._

John woke with a start, his heart pounding, his eyes unseeing in the darkness of his room. He breathed heavily, leaning back on his elbows, a trickle of warm sweat trailing from his temple down the side of his face. There was a pattering of rain on the window, and through the drawn curtains he could see the orange-tinted night sky, partially blocked by the edge of the next building. There was a rustling of fabric as John untangled the duvet from his legs only to leave it in a pile at the corner of his mattress.

John wiped the sweat away from his face and rubbed the dampness from his palm onto his recently starched sheets. As he felt the wrinkles of the sheet leading up to where he now sat, John tried to remember what he had been dreaming about, but like the rain dripping from the window pane his memories skidded away from his grasp, getting further away with every attempt he made to latch onto it. Shaking his head and finally feeling the chill of the room, John reached forward with his dominant arm, pausing only twice due to the ache in his shoulder. Perhaps it would be best to return to sleep.

_Run._

John blinked, letting the thick duvet slip from his fingers as he sat upright. Small, dotting shocks drifted up and down his spine and along the fragile lines of his ribs, and there was a slick and slimy grasp that squeezed his stomach with such force he could feel it in his throat. Something wasn't right; the silence of the flat rang in his ears, proving to be very distracting as he tried to hear something other than his partially stressed breaths and the rain deflecting off the glass and the roof, a foiled attempt to penetrate the warm inhabitants within.

With practiced ease, John slid from the mattress in complete silence, not even daring to make a spring screech as he gripped the cool handle of the gun, his finger on the trigger and the safety off. Lately, he had taken to sleeping with his gun underneath his pillow, and tonight he was grateful for his paranoia. The warmth of the carpet transgressed up the frigid digits of his toes as he crept forward without a sound, his pistol now in both hands, pointed at the floor but by no means any less prepared.

With a careful hand, John pushed the door open, bringing the gun up, checking each and every corner, narrowing his eyes in the dark. His vision tripped over the blended lines of brown and black, trying to spot anything in his home that moved unnaturally. Through slitted eyes and slowly adjusting sight, John noted the door to their living room was closed—but that didn't necessarily mean the intruder was already inside. His grip tightened on his gun. A glint of metal caught John's eye, and he immediately turned, both hands steadying his gun as he aimed forward, all intent hardened to shoot. He relaxed his shoulders, however, when he noted the glint was from the grate holding in the ash and wood from their fireplace. He pulled back slightly on his senses, evening them out as he slunk around the mess of papers and less than hygienic experiments, mute as a thief.

His hands were steady. So steady.

A clock ticked in his ear as he kept his breathing even and short.

John found himself suddenly at the mantle, and he grimaced slightly as he felt the remains of their last fire on the sole of his foot, the grains of ash digging into his heel. Nerves dancing on edge, John stared through the shadows, doing his best to filter the regular noises of the heat rattling through the vents and of the odd creaking of the old foundation. The silence of the flat was oppressing him—how odd that Sherlock chose this night of all nights to go to sleep; he could do with a little tortured screech from the violin. It would greatly calm him down.

_You need to leave, now._

The voice sounded urgent, and suspiciously like his own. He would have gladly followed its advice had it not been for one stray thought: surely if John was in danger, then wouldn't Sherlock be as well? That's usually how it was for their cases, and it was customarily Sherlock who had angered criminals to the point of vengeance (normally for the sake of their dignity—Sherlock certainly had an ability for stripping people clean of it).

Undecided, John bounced on the balls of his feet, jiggling the gun in his hand. He couldn't possibly leave Sherlock now, not after all they had been through, and undoubtedly not after all the experiments John had turned a blind eye to for the sake of their mutual friendship. But the voice was ordering him to do so—Captain Watson always followed orders.

His dilemma was still unresolved, even after pain erupted at the back of his head and the pitch blackness of the night covered his vision completely.

Xx-{X}-xX

_Four Days Later_

"WHAT? _WHAT?"_

The TARDIS was moving on her own, shuddering and whipping her way through the Time Vortex without any guidance from the Doctor, who was, at the moment, very flustered as he bustled about the control center, punching the keys to his original destination, a place with virtually no danger in its history and miles and miles of hills and sunlight, but his old girl wasn't listening to him.

Really, the Doctor thought to himself as he grabbed a hammer to hit his top-grade technology with punishing force, this shouldn't surprise him. It wasn't often he got to go where he wanted.

He twisted a few knobs and pulled a couple of levers, but when he realized the TARDIS wasn't going to veer from her current course, the Doctor dropped his hammer to the gridded metal floor with a defeated clang and stepped back, warily watching her progress on the monitor. The Doctor ran a hand through his hair and let out a slow, low breath. He then pushed his beige coat away from his hips, his hands in place to keep the fabric back. Tapping a bright red converse foot, the Doctor said, "Fine! Fine! Go where you want! It's not like I wanted to take a small vacation in Barcelona… the planet, mind you, but I have a feeling we won't be going to either…"

The TARDIS made a sharp grumbling noise and spat yellow sparks in his face. Indignant, the Doctor shouted wordlessly and kicked in retaliation, very much aware it did nothing to help his predicament and gave him the likeness of a toddler who had not gotten his way (but he _hadn't_ gotten his way… so what did that make him?). The ground shuddered underneath him, and the Doctor sighed, leaning his back against the safety rail behind him, his arms crossed as he waited for his beloved ship to land, deciding to put on a good face as he conceded with going wherever his old girl wanted to take him.

He was alone again. The Master was dead and gone, willing to add to the endangerment of their species just to spite him, which made the Doctor feel a chilled sadness inching its way slowly to his heart. He ached when he thought of the young, bright boys they used to be, playful and mischievous, only to have their innocence (and in the Master's case, his sanity) stripped from them at such an early age.

Martha had left, as well, finished with being his permanent companion, apparently tired of chasing after him when she was getting nothing in return. But she was getting something out of their time together, wasn't she? The Doctor liked to think she was; for what more could she want? A greater knowledge of the universe, adventure and danger lurking around every corner, companionship for those quiet times in the TARDIS in between trips to other galaxies. That was usually enough for the Doctor to get by, though occasionally his mind would travel centuries back along his own timeline, back to a time where he wasn't the only one of his kind, where there were others to share this burden of fixed points and near immortality.

Everyone leaves, the Doctor supposed sadly, in the end, whether they would like to or not. Sometimes they went on their own accord, sometimes they were left behind, and in those most unlucky and most dreaded times, they died.

The TARDIS gave an uncharacteristically violent jerk—more violent than usual, the Doctor mused at the back of his head. When she landed, the thud was loud, if not a bit ominous as the sound vibrated through the empty corridors. Unprepared, the Doctor fell forward with a wordless yelp, his hands burning as they saved his face from further harm; he would have landed on the square-like pattern of the gridded floor, and would have possibly resembled a waffle.

Groaning, the Doctor rolled himself to his back, lightly checking his palms, which were red with the effort that saved his face from meeting the same fate. He touched a reddened mark, hissing when the pain flared up in a sharp spike. Satisfied to note that he was not bleeding, the Doctor let his hands fall to his stomach, feeling the stiff material and plastic buttons of his suit jacket, staring up at the glittering ceiling above him. Bright, circular lights evenly coated the walls, all lit so radiantly the Doctor had to avert his eyes as to not be blinded. Crooked, winding columns connected to the bluish tower of his engine. The glare from each of the lights created a sort of misty haze in his vision, clouding over the sharp details of his domed ceiling.

After catching his breath, the Doctor stood, rubbed at a stitch in his chest, and rolled his neck. With a pleasant pop, the crick was gone. He stared at the engine for a quick moment in disbelief, and shook his head, striding to the rectangular doors.

"Where did you send me," he asked the TARDIS, a hand on the door handle. It was cool underneath his touch, and he leaned a portion of his weight against the wood. He didn't expect an answer, nor did he get one.

He cracked it open hesitantly, expecting war and destruction and fiery balls of light, only to be disappointed by the appearance of an ordinary janitorial closet. Planet: Earth. He wasn't sure if he should be relieved by the lack of action or wary of the TARDIS's attempt to conceal his arrival. The TARDIS as a 1960's Police Box was so large that it left just enough room for him to be able to squeeze out of the doors. Mops, brooms, buckets, and dust pans hung along the halls and rested against the TARDIS as if the ship had always been there. Cleaning supplies in forms of pouring containers and spray cans lined up in alphabetical order on a plain shelving unit that reached the low ceiling. Surprisingly, the light was on, and before he stepped out of the closet, he groped around in the musty air until he caught onto the metallic pull string to turn it off.

The moment the Doctor stepped fully from the closet, blood froze in his veins: he had appeared in the worst possible place for him to be. Blindingly white and pristine floors and walls, lit only by a few fluorescents in the distance, and a largely lettered sign on the wall across for him indicated the Doctor had arrived in the Torchwood Institute. And if he was correct by the texture and taste of the air, he had arrived in London.

_No, no, no!_ he thought, not having the gall to speak aloud in the enemy's headquarters. No one was around, which was a relief, and the lack of adequate lighting designated the day had ended quite a while ago. _Why did you bring me here?_

He looked back to the janitor's closet, very tempted to bolt out of the institute before he could get caught, but he paused; something niggled at the back of his brain, gentling urging him forth. The TARDIS wouldn't have brought him here unless she thought he was needed.

Wired, a bit unhappy, and cursing his attachment to the only thing in the universe with the capability of living as long as he could, the Doctor nodded to himself. He would play this little game with the TARDIS; he would do her bidding, answer the call that must have dragged her here. If he didn't find something wrong or interesting within the hour, he would leave.

The Doctor wiped his hands on the sides of his long jacket, nodding to himself once more. He liked compromises. Compromises were good.

But the promise to himself (and to the TARDIS, which purred in agreement to the Doctor's inner qualms), did nothing to calm the fear that nothing good could come of being at London's Torchwood Institute, empty or not. To ease his paranoia, he discreetly pulled a thin silver tool—his beloved sonic screwdriver—and aimed it at the nearest camera, a black, roving thing at the corner of the hall disguised as a rounded mirror. After ten seconds of the wavering metallic noise, the Doctor released the button, slipped the screwdriver into his pocket, and smirked. He had just created a loop within the camera system. For about an hour, the Doctor would be an invisible man.

With a small smile, congratulating himself on his own cleverness, the Doctor set off on a careful jog through the dimly lit halls, the smacking of his sneakers much louder than he would have liked; the sound made him cringe a little every time he heard it echo off the blank walls, even though the rubber soles of his converse barely whispered. He kept his eyes peeled; staring longer than he should have into every dark area, skirting the corners lowly after peering around them first to be sure no one was there to see him. With every silent second that passed, anticipation wound smugly in his hearts, and every throb released it to another part of his body. He had expected to get caught by an employee by now, he had expected to run into an alien species that wasn't supposed to be on Earth yet, but he hadn't run into _anything_. He unlocked all of the suspicious looking doors, but he had only seen rooms of large computers and research labs with comprehensible (but hardly legible) equations on whiteboards, meeting rooms with long wooden tables and rich rugs, and, oddly enough, an interrogation room with a two-way glass. The latter had made him set his jaw, not sure he wanted to know everything that happened in Torchwood London; those who had last used the room had forgotten a mallet and a set of tweezers.

He used a little of his precious time to glare at the door he had closed—no one deserved pain, especially _that_ sort of pain—and not for the first time in his life, the Doctor wished this horrid place had stayed destroyed after that fiasco with the Daleks and the time rift. Torchwood operatives often made his journeys to this city difficult. After finding this damning evidence of their behind-the-scenes work, the Doctor wasn't sure he liked the Torchwood facility any better at night than he liked it during the day when there were plenty of people around to catch him. At least, had this place been full, they would have kept him from entering rooms like these. It caused a wariness and defeat to settle within his bones.

He was running out of time—the longer he stayed, the more he felt he was missing something; he felt as though he was going to be found soon. The Doctor increased his speed, but perhaps sprinting down the halls wasn't the best idea the Doctor had ever had; he could have slipped and fallen at any time, and he nearly passed the testing facility. The sign was so small he nearly didn't see it; the door was so clean, so barren of fingerprints and dust that it blended almost perfectly with the white walls around it. The room was noticeable, however, by the fifteen electronic identification processes attached directly underneath the sign, including a blood prick, a fingerprint scanner, and an eye exam.

Rolling his eyes—how predictable and insecure human defenses were—the Doctor lazily pointed his sonic screwdriver at the electronic hub, and within seconds, the translucent square above the door trilled and turned green, unlocking the door with a satisfying click. In the next second, he had his screwdriver safely tucked away and the door wide open.

_Amateurs, _the Doctor thought, but paused and raised his eyebrows at what he had unleashed. It was a normal lab, a clean chaos, if there ever was such a thing. Sterile tables attached to giant computers and switches scattered along the floor, blinking silently and indicating several stages of testing. A few contained ongoing experiments (such as some gelatinous green glop in a giant test tube hooked up to wires and flickering machines, as well as a dead, half-dissected body of a Slitheen) lay bare upon metallic tables or were trapped within air-tight glass boxes. Upon seeing such things, the Doctor's hearts skipped a beat or two before thumping furiously against his chest. Out of his first glance alone, he could count at least seventeen unethical and very illegal experiments, and that was only according to the laws on _Earth_. Had he been consulting with those of the Shadow Proclamation, he feared this planet would not have escaped an inevitable incineration.

Was _this_ what the TARDIS wanted him to take a look at? Did she want the Doctor to explain to the humans about reigning in their human-y curiosity for the sake of keeping their planet from turning into a pile of mulch? The Doctor wasn't even sure the humans, especially those of Torchwood, would listen to him, anyway. Humans often did things that were the worst for them—such as bungee jumping, working with and creating hazardous chemicals (somehow, this made them feel _safe_… this never failed to make the Doctor shudder), and eating chocolate—and it didn't help that these infuriatingly delightful creatures had a superiority complex about them. Humans _always_ had to be right, even if they were completely and utterly _wrong_.

The Doctor let the heavy door of the lab slip shut, and it echoed loudly and deeply as he stepped from the threshold, fermenting his resolve to fix this problem. With quiet steps and a leisurely pace, the Doctor ambled about the lab, peering at the experiments, doing his best to ignore the boiling in his gut that replaced his original anticipation. Though they were a bit unorthodox, there was nothing entirely unusual, nothing entirely off about their tools, methods, or formulas. Everything was in its correct time period, which was the most puzzling part. The TARDIS only took him to places where something was wrong with the Timeline—to fix such oddities was, after all, what he did best.

But everything was in perfect, timely shape, even if the tools were a bit pointier than he liked. The Doctor lifted up a small tool. It was only a bit larger than his sonic screwdriver, but the metal gleamed dimly in the low light, and he twisted it in his hands, widening his eyes as he took in its coiled, hardened spring and the spiraled tip that was so sharp the Doctor believed he was going to cut himself by just looking at it. What in the Land of all that was Good and Holy did the Torchwood people do with this thing?

"Hello," said a mild voice from somewhere in front of him, and the Doctor dropped the odd tool, startled. The twisted tool clattered on the clean floor near his shoes, but the Doctor looked up and around until he located the speaker at the back of the room, who smiled pleasantly, mockingly, at him as he spoke again, "Have you come to have your bit of fun, too?"

Intrigued enough to keep his irritation at bay, the Doctor shoved his hands into his coat pockets and wandered closer to the man, who was certainly the only living thing in this lab. On a raised stage in the back center of the room, the man was strapped to a gurney, angled in such a way that his feet nearly touched the ground, almost as if to tease him with tantalizing thoughts of walking under his own power. His ankles and wrists were bound by steel clamps, locking him effectively in. The man was short and blonde (though greying prematurely), naked save for a pair of bloodstained sweatpants, and despite the strangely shaped bruises on his abdomen and arms, the man was in decent shape. Yet, though the man was prisoner in the Torchwood Institute (something that immediately called for concern), the most peculiar thing about him was an awful, twisted scar on his left shoulder, puckered and angry, slick and shiny as it stretched over his collarbone, pulling skin and damaged muscle to the center, just above his heart.

"No, I'm just visiting." The Doctor blinked, veering closer to the man until they were a good speaking distance away. The man stared, delirious, as if he were making sure he could truly see the Doctor. Concerned, but deciding to keep the nonchalant tone the imprisoned man was taking, the Doctor nodded to the perpendicular gurney the man was strapped to. "That can't be too comfortable."

"S'not," the man snorted, the side of his lips that weren't swollen purple lifting into that same, mocking smile. A cut cracked and a dribble of bright red trailed a line to the dip in his chin. He chuckled humorlessly to himself, as if enjoying an inside joke. "But I've had worse."

The Doctor furrowed his eyebrows at the man's tone: he was oddly calm for being held captive in a government testing facility. He found it particularly strange that this man wasn't even trying to escape (but, the Doctor supposed as he took in the man's lack of tools or range of movement for his limbs, he had probably tried everything there was), nor was he asking the Doctor for help. He roved his eyes over the man, noting the sheen of sweat on his forehead that may be sign of a fever. Now that he was closer, he could see the thin lines of less than careful blood-letting cuts in the crook of his left arm and running parallel with his ribs. Given the man's height and bland, kindly features, the Doctor wondered what threat they could have seen in him. Sure, his muscles were defined as a fighter's, but Torchwood couldn't have chosen a more ordinary man. So why did they take him?

The Doctor returned his eyes to the man's face, and was startled by the awareness within the deep blue depths, despite his tiredness and obvious delirium. The man was in pain, and yet, he was assessing the Doctor as accurately as the Doctor was him. Perhaps there was more to the man than what meets the eye.

The Doctor smiled. "Would you like me to set you free?"

"Tempting offer," the man said with a pained expression, "but I'm going to have to decline."

The Doctor had already pulled himself onto the stage and kneeled by the man's elevated feet (via the standing gurney), his sonic screwdriver out and buzzing. "This will only take a second… wait… _what?_" The Doctor wasn't sure he understood, or if he heard correctly. He twisted the screwdriver and the blue light disappeared from the tip, then checked his ears for a build-up of earwax. Did this man just say he _didn't _want to escape this mad captivity? The Doctor looked at his pinky finger and noted it was clean. So he _had_ heard the man correctly.

Bewildered and very much taken aback, the Doctor looked up to the man and asked, "You _want_ to stay in this place? _Why?_ It's all…" The Doctor stood and gestured wildly to the expensive computers and sterilized tools. "…Torchwoody," he finished with a grimace.

"Thank you, _really, _thank you," the man said sincerely, his eyebrows rose apologetically. The words were fairly dignified despite the man's compromised position. "But if I leave, they'll go after my friend."

Impressed, the Doctor stood back and eyed this man carefully. Not many people were willing to give their lives for their friends—such loyalty was so hard to find, especially these days. "What's your name?" he asked the man curiously.

The man smiled. "John Watson. And yours?"

The Doctor felt as if he had hit a wall, his head light and his focus blurred. He had just met John Watson. _The_ Dr. John Watson. Him and his friend Sherlock Holmes were the stuff of the legends—the story of these two men against the criminal world transcended generations—millennia, if he were to be honest with himself; the last time he had been to New Earth he had heard a passing conversation about these two men in human history. Dr. Watson and the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes had been compared to martyrs, used as models of what humans should be now. Because of Dr. Watson's blog (and later, his biographical stories about their cases), Sherlock Holmes had become a household name in the future, and their friendship had been talked about even after they both had died. The Doctor felt a grin creep slowly on his face—this was brilliant! Oh, this was fantastic. If only he had a companion to share this with, for he loved seeing their awed reactions (though, he would have to have one from the distant future for this to be a novelty… people like Rose and Martha wouldn't have understood the brilliance of this moment).

"Oh, yes you are," the Doctor said, and the grin on his face was so wide his cheeks began to burn.

John furrowed his brow in confusion. "Sorry?"

"Never mind," the Doctor said, happiness inflating his chest like a balloon. He still couldn't believe it. "I'm the Doctor."

The changed in John's face was instantaneous; the tired, confused state sobered into one of surprise and alertness, his eyes going wide. "You?" he said, slightly slacked jawed. "You're the Doctor?"

Though still amazed at his good fortune of meeting a legend, the Doctor rocked back on his heels, hands in the pockets of his long coat, slightly wary. If the Doctor was a known idol on Earth, there might possibly be a problem (actually, there would be a Very Big Problem, and he would have to do a little innovative and improvised timey wimey engineering to fix it). "Guilty as charged," the Doctor said, his smile easing into something easier and less manic. "How'd you hear of me?"

The man snorted again, though this time it was filled with humor. "You're all they talk about in this damned place. A popular topic, you, going out there, fighting the bad of the world. You know, you've seemed to really piss them off lately."

The Doctor rubbed the back of his neck, feeling sheepish, but relieved he was still a secret. "Yeah, I tend to do that."

"A lot of what they say doesn't make a whole lot of sense," John continued, eyes glazed and staring at a spot over the Doctor's shoulder, "of course, they make you sound like a bloody menace, and they don't seem very grateful that you've saved their hides, which is unlucky for me."

"Why's that?"

"Because," John huffed, an incredulous smile pulling at his lips, "They think I'm _you._"

Well _that_ was unexpected. "What?"

"I keep telling them I'm not the Doctor," John explained, and his fists clenched and twisted in his restraints. The corded muscle in his arms flexed and an uncomfortable look came over his face. "But as their prisoner, of course they don't believe me. According to them, I've amnesia and my brain filled in the gaps of my memory with false details, including my name and profession and everything else I can prove extensively with witnesses and documentation. They won't hear a word I have to say, trying to fill my head with this… nonsense about extraterrestrials and _Time Travel_, interrogating me above events I didn't even _think_ were possible, and every time I poke a hole in their argument…" John trailed off and made a distressed noise as discomfort played about his features.

The possibilities of what those Torchwood idiots could have done to John Watson boiled up, conquering his curiosity once and for all. The TARDIS was correct for bringing him here—he had to fix this—but he wished she would have brought him a few days sooner, to spare John this completely unnecessary harm. The Doctor was more than annoyed now: he was _angry_. He didn't even know _how_ these people could have gotten the knowledge to accuse someone of being a Time Lord, but accusing an innocent human of being _him_… well, things just got personal.

"I've got to get you out of here," the Doctor said firmly, but John only shook his head.

"No." His reply was almost frantic. "You can't. They'll go after Sherlock."

The Doctor paused; he had momentarily forgotten about John's famous best friend, but that wouldn't be a problem. "Your friend will be safe. I have to get you out, now."

It was John's turn to be angry. "I won't go."

_Stupid, stubborn humans. For once, do what is good for you. _"I can't just leave you to be tortured by these madmen!" the Doctor shouted, throwing his hands in the air as he tried to make John see reason. The Doctor seethed; couldn't John understand he was trying to help him?

"Don't worry, I won't tell them you stopped by," John said, much to the Doctor's surprise and unease. It made the Doctor pause and wonder if John truly believed that's what was bothering him. "Obviously, they want you, and once they finally figure out that I'm not their man, they'll find you and do a hell of a lot worse than what they are doing to me."

The Doctor felt sick—indeed his stomach cramped up and shrunk, forcing acid to burn at his throat. He was so _tired _of humans taking the fall for him, he was so _tired_ of people, not just humans, sacrificing themselves so that the Doctor could live to see another day. Couldn't they see, with all their cleverness and stubbornness, that they had their own lives to lead? Couldn't they see how old the Doctor was, and that maybe it's best for the universe if he had died with the rest of his species? Obviously, they did not, and Dr. John Watson was no exception; he would not be moved.

It was his fault. It was all his fault. Too many people had to die in order for him to live. The Doctor swallowed the sick back, but the awful taste remained.

"At least let me tell your friend you're all right," the Doctor said once he found his voice again.

But John just shook his head. "He'll come after me."

There were shards of glass in his throat and it was difficult to speak, "He must be worried."

"He might not realize I've been gone." John smiled sadly. "He does that, sometimes."

The Doctor seriously doubted this. "He'll find out eventually."

John visibly slumped, defeated. "Yeah," he croaked, sounding as exhausted as the Doctor felt, "There's that." Though John's face was youthful (if not prematurely lined), he seemed as if he had aged ten years in three seconds. "Alright. My friend, his name is Sherlock Holmes. Tall man, big coat, cheekbones… you can't miss him."

If the situation weren't so serious, the Doctor would have grinned in excitement over the name. Oh, this was brilliant. He was going to meet _the _Sherlock Holmes. Unfortunately, it was not over the best of circumstances, and he would have to keep his urge to squeal down. The last time he had met someone completely wonderful, someone who had inspired the future of the universe, he had been sorely disappointed (he was still smarting over William Shakespeare's choice of motivating words: "_Shut your big fat mouths!"_—the Doctor had learned a valuable lesson: never meet your heroes).

"The address is 221B Baker Street, London, England," John continued, oblivious to the Doctor's inner ramblings, "Actually, I'm not sure if we're still in London… or England, for that matter…"

"You're still in London," the Doctor assured.

"Huh." John looked stumped, as if this were surprising to him. He didn't blink as he stared at the Doctor, his forehead crinkling and his mouth slightly agape as he considered this information. "Well," he said after a moment, "it's not any place I recognize."

This struck the Doctor as odd. Did John usually frequent odd labs or basements? It then hit him almost instantly: "How many times have you been kidnapped?"

"Conscious or unconscious?" John said after a moment of contemplation.

The Doctor just stared. "Forget I asked." The Doctor ran a hand through his hair, exhaling through his mouth. He would need to think of a plan, and quickly, for he wasn't going to leave John Watson at the Torchwood Institute for long; he didn't even like leaving him here now, but the man was as stubborn as a mule. "Is there anything you'd like me to tell Sherlock Holmes?"

After a steadying breath, John said, "Vatican Cameos."

"What does that mean?" the Doctor asked curiously.

John gave a small smile, the bruise on the side of his mouth stretching painfully. "It's just a code. He'll understand."

The Doctor opened his mouth, to say what, he didn't know, but the urge disappeared with the sound of heels clicking dully just outside the testing facility. His hour must almost be up. Stricken, he looked to John Watson, wishing very much the man would let him help, but darted out the nearest door as the main one clicked with accepted access, beeping and releasing air from the locks. He would help this man. Given a new purpose, the Doctor sprinted to the janitorial closet that held his TARDIS, the image of John's calm, understanding, and infuriatingly serene smile lingering with him.


	5. Miracle Work 4

5

The Doctor didn't spare any time getting out of the TARDIS when she landed; there was a man being tortured in _his _place (not saying that he liked torture… the opposite, really… but he'd rather be there than the fairly famous human), and he needed to spend the least amount of time possible alerting Sherlock Holmes (here, the Doctor's hearts sped up in excitement—this man was a legend, a true humany, intellectual legend whose glory reached past the stars) of this slight little problem. He burst out of the rectangular doors, the warmth of the TARDIS drifting away as the chill of the early morning biting his cheeks, and he shut the door firmly behind him. Dark shadows, angled by the sharp edges of the buildings and the glowing orbs of the streetlamps in the distance, covered most of the details of the street, but he could just make out the large, bulky shape of the dumpster on his right and the filthy newspaper underneath his shoes.

Wasting no more time taking in his surroundings, the Doctor pushed his legs rapidly forward, skidding out of the alleyway, vaguely observing the well-kept buildings, admiring their newly painted bricks and the clear, pitch-black streets blurrily reflecting the streetlamps. The Doctor inwardly smiled; Baker Street looked to be a pleasant place for Dr. Watson to live, and he slowed down as he sensed he was nearing the very flat he needed to be.

With his hands in his pockets, hearts thrumming in his chest and lungs burning from the quick bought of exertion, the Doctor strolled along the sidewalk and amiably glanced at the golden house numbers welded to the wooden doors. His smile grew when he spotted the tarnished numbers on a dark door next to a small café.

He used his right fist to knock on the door, gently enough as to not be rude, and allowed this Sherlock Holmes a minute before knocking again. The Doctor fidgeted, staring at the scratches on the door for something to do as he waited, thinking up a persona that would best disguise his 'alien' features. He could be some bloke from pest control… but he wasn't dressed for it. A mail man would probably be a poor disguise as well, seeing as it was… the Doctor looked at his watch and grimaced; it was five passed two in the morning. Of course no one was going to open the door for him. But this was important!

Agitated and worried (he didn't like leaving John at Torchwood, and there was the concern that something had arrived for Sherlock Holmes before the Doctor), he slipped out his sonic screwdriver and pointed it to the gleaming doorknob. The familiar mechanical whirring buzzed from his tool, echoing in his head as he made the calculations, and once he found the correct pitch for the golden lock (and the Doctor found it strange that there was more than one on this door), the tip glowed, swathing the knob in a wash of bright blue light, tingeing the gold to an olive green. The multiple locks clicked one by one until the door opened with such slowness the Doctor partially believed something horrible would happen to him.

"Hello?" the Doctor called, slipping through a sliver of the doorway and closing the door behind him. As he pushed his screwdriver into his breast pocket, the Doctor glanced around the darkened lobby, taking note of the bare, curling hat stand, the antique chair placed next to the narrow staircase, the shadows darkening another door in the back. Despite his carefully deliberate footsteps, a floorboard creaked underneath his sole. He cringed at the small noise as he groped around in his endless pocket for a familiar flap of leather. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes? Sorry to disturb you at this hour…" he paused to make a noise of satisfaction as his fingers stroked the smooth, worn cover of his Psychic Paper, and with a strain of his wrist muscles, he was able to latch onto it.

The Doctor was about to speak again, but no one had come to see why a strange man was in this home yet, so with no small amount of trepidation, the Doctor crept up the stairs. As he made this slow, perfidious journey, he angled his body sideways in caution, bending his knees to make his tall body stoop just a bit, effectively turning himself into a smaller target.

As the Doctor made it to the landing, the faint stench of burnt carpet fibers, chemical burns, and oddly enough, something sweet as pumpkin forced its way through the pores of the walls. Encouraged by the lack of bullets (or any other kind of harmful attack, for that matter), the Doctor drew himself to his full height and slowly turned the doorknob, making only enough room for his head.

"By all means, come in," a deep voice rumbled from the shadows. The Doctor jumped in fright, knocking his temple on the doorjamb. Pain flared up, crossing his face as he winced against the suddenness of it all, and he pressed his hand to it and groaned. "You've managed to get this far. And unless you have something interesting or important to tell me, go away."

When the pain on his head reverting to a much more manageable level—though he still felt a tad lightheaded—the Doctor pushed through the door and glanced appreciatively around the living area he had almost trespassed on. It was a lovely space: push, scarlet carpet underneath his feet, bouncy and warm; a repetitive, yet calming pattern of fleur-de-lis on the walls (though he was a bit startled to see someone had defiled it with a bright yellow smiley face and something that looked suspiciously like bullet holes… at least, the Doctor _hoped_ they weren't bullet holes). Cream curtains hid the night away, and the lamps on every corner of the room chased the damp and dark away. There were ordinary objects, such as couches and tables and a fireplace (the flames high and glowing, emitting a smoky scent amongst the other interesting smells), but that was where the normality ended. Though the place was clean, it was cluttered with boxes upon boxes of files, strewn papers scatted on the desks, unopened envelopes conquering the side tables and pinned to the mantle by a sharp throwing knife. Large, built in bookcases (with subjects from the human anatomy to an expansive Greek dictionary) defined the wall next to the fireplace and two well-loved couches, separated only by a rectangular mirror.

The Doctor eyed a skull as the deep voice continued, "You're a very persistent client."

The Doctor then turned his attention to the man speaking. He was an interesting looking fellow, as exotic as the flat: ivory, unblemished skin that reflected the orange of the fire as the heat touched upon the right side of his face; pale, piercing eyes that couldn't seem to choose what color they wanted to be; defining cheekbones and a straight nose, all contrasted by the dark curls that nearly covered his ears. He was a thin man with long, sprawling limbs, made thinner by his well-tailored clothes. His purple shirt was unbuttoned at the cuffs and rolled up to the elbows, revealing two flesh-colored patches on one forearm. Both feet were planted to the floor and encased in shiny dress shoes, his elbows resting on the arms of the green leather chair, his long, pale fingers fusing together to touch just underneath his nose and the cupid's bow of his lips. The Doctor couldn't read the expression on his face, but he was slightly unnerved by the sharp gaze that flicked along the Doctor's shoes and coat.

"Hello!" the Doctor said jovially, smiling in spite of the situation. This was just brilliant. "You must be Sherlock Holmes!" The Doctor looked around the room; John did say Sherlock Holmes had a big coat, and ah! There it was, draped over the back of a comfortable chair with a high back and a Union Jack pillow near Sherlock's own.

The man's stoic expression didn't change. "Yes, obvious, dull. Moving on. The question is: who are you?"

"Oh, dreadfully sorry, how rude of me!" The Doctor couldn't help his grin as he pulled out his leathered flip book, opening it with one hand as he said, "I'm the Chief Flat Inspector. I'm here to inspect your flat."

Sherlock Holmes was not impressed. "That paper is blank."

The Doctor frowned slightly, looking at his Psychic Paper. Though the credentials looked official enough, he knew the illusion didn't pass. "So it is. Never mind." The Doctor shoved the paper into his pocket, and Sherlock's eyes followed his movements before snapping back to his face. "I'm the Doctor."

Sherlock raised both of his eyebrows, his fingertips an inch away from his mouth. "You're not a medical man."

"Nope!" The Doctor said cheerfully. He loved the brilliant ones, for they were always so much fun, much different from what he usually had to deal with.

"But you do work with your hands," Sherlock continued, "Quite often, I should say. I would entertain the possibility of you being a mechanic… if you weren't completely wrong." He said the last part bitterly, as if spitting out a foul word, poisonous and disappointing.

"Oh?" the Doctor said, intrigued. "How am I wrong?"

Sherlock's piercing eyes swiveled, darting around the area the Doctor stood. "You're a walking contradiction," he said finally, his voice low and analytical. Sherlock adopted an almost bored tone, his words quick and almost difficult to catch even with the Doctor's enhanced hearing (comparatively to the human race, in any instance—he _was_ a Time Lord, after all). "The clothes you wear—pin-striped suit, something commonly seen in the nineties yet your tie indicates it's vintage 1960's… or it would be, had it not been an original, and a very well kept original. Your coat—beige, thin, calf-length—worn for style as well as comfort, but not for warmth… if it were, you would have taken it off… it's almost unbearably hot in here." Here, Sherlock inhaled a sharp breath before continuing, "Your clothes say you care about how you look, and though there is some wear and tear (and scorch marks) you take good care of them. However, coupled with the very obvious fact that you haven't changed your clothes for a _very_ long time, your attitude suggests you couldn't care less…" he paused and looked up at the Doctor's face. "Who wears red chucks with a suit, anyway?"

The Doctor blinked at the sudden and lengthy explanation; he didn't think he'd had such a detailed analysis about himself in the long nine-hundred and some years he'd been alive, and he doubted Sherlock Holmes was just getting started. "I do, apparently," he said in response to Sherlock's question, shrugging unapologetically.

"Simple explanation: you run a fair amount—more than a fair amount considering the smooth soles on your shoes, a testament to the erosion of the grips and the scuff marks on the heels. Your thin physique accompanies this observation, therefore, you are constantly on the move—a traveler." Sherlock's nose twitched as did the side of his mouth, and it took the Doctor a moment to realize Sherlock was puzzled by something. His pale eyes darted around once more, greedy and frightening, before his brow furrowed marginally. "Strange…" he mused, "there isn't much dirt on your shoes or the hem of your pants, so it is hard to tell where you've been. But you were easily startled when I caught you breaking into my flat—rather badly, I must say, for you make far too much noise—but the reason must be important, for you would have come during a more agreeable hour of the day. When you finally decided to drop the façade, you had the cautious gait of a troubled person. Conclusion: you had just left somewhere you didn't want to be and you seek my help."

The Doctor smiled and rocked onto his heels, awed at the man. "That was fantastic!" he declared, feeling every word within the excited regions of his vocal chords.

Sherlock started and regarded him warily.

"I mean," the Doctor babbled, unable to help himself, "you missed the main reason to why I wear what I do, but other than that, it was utterly brilliant."

All of Sherlock's features seemed to frown at him, not just the corners of his mouth. His eyes darted about the Doctor once more, assessing, compiling, transfixing. "Then why would you wear such a ridiculous combination of clothes?"

"They're _timeless_," the Doctor grinned.

Sherlock's face was blank as slate before darkening into hardened granite. "Fantastic. You have just graduated from stimulating visitor to idiotic distraction. I shall thank you not to waste any more of my time." As he spoke, his voice deepened and rumbled like the moment of tectonic plates, and he slowly changed his position from relaxed to sitting upright, his back ramrod straight as he made to push himself from his chair. "I don't _care_ about your pointless drivel. I don't _care _if you've driven off the last of your friends that left you in this pitiful, lonely state. And though you confuse me greatly, even if it would take me _weeks_ to take you completely apart, I will _not_ allow myself to become distracted by your irrelevancy and solitary banter. _You_ do not matter. Get. Out."

Sherlock Holmes was standing now, a storm rampant in his pale eyes. Though they were the same height, Sherlock seemed to loom over the Doctor in his towering rage, his anger permeating through the granite of his face: his jaw set tighter, his nostrils flared slightly, and his mouth seemed to clamp over all the details he was possibly more than willing to share. For the first time in a while, the Doctor felt a trickling of fear and unease—the man had been cruel, and the Doctor was a bit wary about how he could have known his companions deserted him.

"Mr. Holmes," the Doctor said, very carefully, very solemnly, patting his palms against the heat of the air between them in a universal gesture of peace. There was a small huff of air from the other man, and the Doctor took a small moment to look around the flat before a great swoosh of understanding calmed his nerves all together. "I don't mean you any harm. I apologize if my untimely arrival has disrupted your current case, but I believe I can help with that."

Sherlock's nostrils flared again, but his piercing eyes snapped from the apparently extraneous papers of information on the floor Sherlock must have shunted aside in a panicked haste, to the table beside his green armchair that held documents and CCTV shots of a familiar blonde haired man, to a pair of glinting objects in the middle of the floor before returning back to the Doctor. John Watson had been incorrect in his assumption that Sherlock wouldn't have noticed his disappearance, and now that the Doctor took a better look at the tall man before him, he could see the strain behind his eyes and bruise-like shadows underneath them. The Doctor felt an overwhelming sympathy.

"I have seen Dr. Watson," the Doctor said, and he was unable to fit in any more as there was an onslaught of run-together questions and demands from Sherlock Holmes.

"What? Where did you see him? What did he say? What was his condition? Why didn't you take him with you? No, no, stupid question, don't answer that. Obviously you were unable, and he mentioned I could be of assistance." Sherlock said all of this without an intake of breath, his eyes burning feverishly and his face tense. He then muttered to himself, "Clever John, very clever," then said louder to the Doctor, "what did he tell you? Where is he? Give me everything you know, don't leave anything out. The precise details are the most important."

Sherlock was waiting expectantly, his pale eyes burning feverishly and his stance unchanging, unmoving, almost as if he were made of pure marble. The Doctor swallowed, realizing how close Sherlock had gotten to his face, and he took a small step backwards, trying not to sound as guilty as he felt; John Watson did not want to be saved.

At last, the Doctor gathered a bit of courage. "Dr. Watson sent me here as a messenger, Mr. Holmes," he said quietly, not saying what he knew Sherlock didn't want to hear.

Sherlock was irritated. "What did he say?"

"Vatican Cameos."

The fever burning in Sherlock's eyes increased into a mad fire as he glared at the Doctor, and he was surprised to see every muscle in the man's face intensify. "No," Sherlock replied simply, his comment more a command than a denial, and before the Doctor could say anything else, Sherlock moved with such fluidity that the Doctor had to blink at the quick action and turn in order to keep the man within his sight. Sherlock twirled around the room, grabbing a scarf from atop a bright red laptop computer and dashed over to the other chair, where he lifted his great, heavy coat and slipped his arms through.

"Wait, what does it mean?" the Doctor asked, stepping to the side of the room so he wasn't completely run over by Sherlock Holmes, whose previously impassive face now had a determined look about his features as he pulled on a pair of black expensive gloves as if they were the finishing touches to his body armor. The Doctor was ignored, and he tried again, "Where do you think you're going?"

"John's a noble fool," Sherlock growled, pausing at his chair to side a black mobile phone into his pocket. He stopped again, his face once more too close for the Doctor's liking, but the Doctor had endured worse. Looping a blue cashmere scarf about his pastel neck, Sherlock scoffed, "But he forgets who _I _am."

Sherlock twisted out of the Doctor's vision, making for the door, but the Doctor wasn't ready for this man to leave and enter a warzone in which he had no knowledge of what-so-ever; how Sherlock Holmes expected to find John without that important bit of information was beyond the Doctor's extensive grasp. The man would only get himself killed without the Doctor's help, and the Doctor wasn't ready to lend his aid until her knew exactly what was happening. Why was John taken? What did 'Vatican Cameos' mean? Like Sherlock said before him, every detail was important, let it be large or small.

So, to get the answers he so desperately needed, the Doctor had to stop Sherlock; he pulled out his sonic screwdriver from his breast pocket, aimed at the doorknob, and slid up the switch. Immediately, the mechanical buzzing filled the air as the tip lit up in its calming blue, closing and locking the door before Sherlock had a chance to escape. The Doctor thanked his lucky stars (of which he had very few) that the lock was metal.

As the Doctor pushed his handy tool away, Sherlock Holmes froze in his steps, his black coat billowing around his ankles at the sudden stop. His long fingers twitched in his gloves as he turned around, his face devoid of any emotion, a blank slate of which the Doctor could glean nothing from. If the Doctor was disappointed from Sherlock's lack of astonishment or awe, he didn't show it.

"That was not logically possible," Sherlock stated quietly, almost to himself. His next word was a command, "How?"

"Oh, a little bit of this and that," the Doctor said ambiguously, purposely steering them away from the dangerous waters of intellectual conversation. Normally, he would have been thrilled at the chance to explain the not-so difficult mechanics of his favorite tool to an understanding mind, but at the moment, they had a John Watson to save. Clasping his hands together, the Doctor indicated to the chairs by the fireplace, conveniently angled toward each other for easy conversation. "Shall we sit down? I fear this will take a little bit to explain, and only I have the location of Dr. Watson."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, hesitantly slightly at the threshold of the living room before recognizing he had no other choice but to comply. Stiffly, Sherlock seated himself in the chair he had occupied before the Doctor gained entrance, his back straight, his coat tightening about the shoulders as he sat on the tail, his eyes incongruously attentive as he watched the Doctor's every movement.

"Thank you," the Doctor sighed, letting himself settle into the pillow at his back, sinking pleasantly in its comfort. He felt a little guilty and a tad sorry he had to intimidate and bribe this man into doing what he wanted, but it had to be done. Leaning forward, the Doctor said in his most clear voice, "Now you must understand the danger of the situation we are entering in. I want very much to save Dr. Watson, but before we do that, we probably should compare facts. I don't want the either of us entering in blind."

"You know where he is." It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"Tell me."

The Doctor considered withholding this information until later, but there was a certain… desperation lingering at the edges of Sherlock's visage, twisting it unnaturally that made the Doctor suspect that it was akin to physical pain not to be knowledgeable to his friend's whereabouts. The Doctor amended his route of conversation, wanting to appease Sherlock Holmes for the time being, "He's at the Torchwood Institute."

A crease appeared between Sherlock's eyebrows. "The what?"

"I'm not surprised you haven't heard of it," the Doctor said, almost apologetically. "It's a private government branch that researches alien life and technology. Unfortunately, the institute in London was contacted, meaning…"

"Aliens?" Sherlock scoffed, his smile leering in a way that suggested disbelief. The anger behind Sherlock's piercing glare simmered once more. "What else is there, _Doctor?_ Should I believe in werewolves and fairies as well? How about the incongruous and ever mysterious _phantom_ in a suit that shows up only to destroy the lives of us petty humans?"

"Alright then," the Doctor said, inwardly smirking as he crossed his arms and leaned back into the high arch of the chair, "you tell me: what closed that door, hmm?" He nodded his head to the right, indicating the now door that trapped them both within the confines of the messy flat. "Come on, give me your theories. Dazzle me. If not alien technology, then what?"

"_Stop wasting my time!"_ Sherlock snarled, his face contorting in on itself as anger at the Doctor and frustration at the disappearance of his friend made itself present. "Either you _tell me_ where he is, or you get the hell out of my flat!"

"I'm telling you the truth!" the Doctor shouted, throwing his hands in the air. "Why is it so hard for you to believe that aliens exist? What proof would I have to give you so that we're both on the same page?"

Sherlock smiled at him, his grin as mocking and filled with rage as John's had been when the army doctor had first spotted him. The Doctor vaguely wondered if the detective had learned it from John, or if it were the other way around. Either way, the effect was chilling. "Have you an alien friend? Let's see him walk through my front door."

"A bit late for that, mate," the Doctor muttered.

Sherlock turned to him sharply. "What was that?"

Still muttering under his breath, cursing the genius detective (almost everyone he had encountered were easy enough to convince), he fished his metal tool from his breast pocket and threw it into Sherlock's lap. "Here. Take a look at that. Explain it to me."

_That_ had peaked Sherlock Holmes' interest. With a pale, long fingered hand, he delicately lifting the screwdriver from his lap and stilled it in front of his eyes, which scanned the tool with rapid flicks, diagnosing, perhaps, every scratch, every scuff mark, and possibly counting the lines of his unusual thumb print smeared across the shining case. Every once in a while, his brow would furrow, seeming to pause in his deductions, before he started again. He looked at the screwdriver from every possible angle, letting out a huff of breath through his teeth in a hiss when something didn't seem to make sense.

"Well?" the Doctor asked, irritation still plain in his crossed arms and the set of his narrowed eyes. He had an inkling that Sherlock Holmes would have a hard time believing in the existence of otherworldly life (actually, his excitement at meeting the greatest detective to have ever lived had driven away any thought of this, but no one needed to know that), but he hadn't realized how hard it would be.

"This matches the unexplained and rigid indents in your right thumb," the detective mumbled, almost begrudgingly. He turned it once with his forefinger and thumb, holding so close to his face that the warm fog of his breath washed over the silver. "And the smoother ones in the other fingers. You use this tool often… more than you do a writing utensil, which is odd for a man of your age, and yet it also explains the circular callous on the muscle of your thumb of your dominant hand. How odd my brain came up with mechanic when you rarely work with anything other than this…"

Sherlock continued in his endless monologue, fully distracted as he tried to deduce how old it was or where it had been made, but the answers to both of those questions were only speculations, and the more the detective spoke about it, the more excited he became. After a few moments of listening to the deep monotone, the Doctor cast his glance around the flat again, unsure of when the detective would have his fill of the sonic screwdriver. His eyes met the strewn papers on the floor, curiously scanning over the CCTV images of the profile of John's face, most of them taken from above or as a side shot. He was always in the same black jacket, his shoulders set, sometimes with his fists clenched, other times with his hands clasped behind his back in parade rest. When he eyed the time and date at the bottom of each photo, he noted none of the dates passed nine at night, nearly five days ago. The Doctor's stomach clenched at the thought of John having been in that lab for so long.

The Doctor let his gaze rove over the other documents, which looked to be extensive, detailed reports of who knows what, and some which looked to be transcripts of text messages. Vaguely, he wondered how Sherlock could have gotten this information, but all speculations came to a sudden halt as he considered the objects on the ground. One was a pistol (oh, how the Doctor _hated _guns… and what—was the safety turned _off?_), and the other something he never expected to see again, not since Dr. Yana at the end of the universe held one in his withered hands.

"What?" he whispered to himself, unable to believe his eyes. Cautiously, and very, very slowly, the Doctor crept from the chair, reaching toward the floor as if his hand was magnetized, his eyes riveted to the glaringly Gallifreyan symbols circling the base of a silvery, tarnished fob watch. There was a ticking in his head as he cradled it in his palm. It warmed his hand, and the Doctor exhaled in disbelief. This was a Time Lord's fob watch. He wanted to slap himself, to see if he was dreaming. But who…?

The Doctor looked to Sherlock, who had apparently stopped his rambling about the screwdriver and was watching the Doctor, his pale eyes piercing with such intensity the Doctor believed he would inexplicably combust. The sonic screwdriver hung loosely from his fingers.

The Doctor glanced from Sherlock, to the watch, and back again. Lifting the silver object so Sherlock could see it clearly, he asked, "Can you see this?"

"Of course I can see the watch," Sherlock said scathingly. The Doctor's heart sank minimally; Sherlock was brilliant, but he was just another human being. A perishable, small human being who had a brilliant mind to rival the Doctor's. "That blasted thing has been driving me mad… I can't figure it out. It doesn't make any sense, just like your tool."

Sherlock threw the sonic screwdriver at the Doctor in disgust, and the Doctor caught it on an automatic reflux, grinning once again. So the great Sherlock Holmes wanted to know about this watch, did he? He only hoped that great mind could keep up.

"It's said the memories of a Time Lord could be kept in a watch," the Doctor said, feeling the excitement build up within him once more, "ever wonder where the term 'Keeping Time' came from? A Time Lord could completely change his biology to match that of any alien being at any time in space and tuck himself snugly inside a fob watch such as this." The Doctor held the watch up so it gleamed magnificently in the half-light. He grinned. "I've used one of these to become human… terribly long story, but I had to hide from the Family of Blood—I'm rare and valuable goods across the universe, you see—so I used my Chameleon Arch and zip! My Time Lord signature was completely gone, and I was human. I became absolutely invisible on any radar. It's brilliant technology… it's just difficult when you're on your own because you forget absolutely _everything_ about yourself… a new persona is created for you. Essentially, A Time Lord forgets everything about Time and Space… including that he's a different being! Isn't it fantastic?"

The Doctor was pacing the floor now, kicking aside loose papers and crinkling the ones that wouldn't move, gesticulating wildly as he spoke. Sherlock watched him, documenting his every move. The Doctor gave the watch an appreciative look as if it had just succeeded in doing a magnificent and difficult trick, and he roved his thumb over the symbols. It was refreshing to see his native language on something other than inside his TARDIS, and glad for once that it didn't mean anything bad. He waved it in front of Sherlock's face as he continued, "It's brilliant stuff, really, but the real question is how in the world you acquired this watch!"

Sherlock frowned, the crease apparent against between his eyebrows. "I didn't acquire it," Sherlock said, speaking slowly as if tasting every word on his tongue before letting it go. "It's not mine. It's John's."

The Doctor's smile faded as he lowered his arm. "Did he ever tell you how he got it?" he asked the detective, now deeply worried. He hadn't considered the possibility of John Watson being an actual Time Lord… they were all supposed to be dead! Not that he wasn't pleased at the implications that he wasn't the only one left in the entire universe (the only sane one, at least), but it didn't place John's current situation in a good light. It complicated things if Torchwood knew the existence of fob watches (and it was even more concerning about _how_ they had gotten this information)… it was something he knew he had to fix.

"No," Sherlock replied, looking oddly frustrated. "The lack of data from that watch is irritating. I only recently learned John had it since he was a young child."

The Doctor swallowed back the bought of nausea that rose from his stomach. "How did he interact with the watch?"

Sherlock sent him a strange look, his head slightly tilted to the side, both curious and wary. "He could never see it properly, even when it was in his hands," he said at last, and the Doctor's slowly sinking stomach slipped to his toes. "He seemed familiar with the object, but often, it was like as if it wasn't there at all. Why?"

The Doctor felt nauseas with dread. Torchwood might have actually found a Time Lord… but the chance of them merely stumbling upon one was too great a chance: monumental! But where in the world would they have gotten the information? Did they know anything about fob watches? Of course they would have known a little about them… there was no other glaring factor that could have incriminated John Watson; there was no other proof that he could have been one… unless someone knew he was there. But if there was someone keeping an eye on John Watson for the safety of his Time Lord alter-ego, wouldn't they have been closer to him? They could have been taken in for questioning, and after a long day at the London Institute, they could have unwillingly given him up…

The Doctor started to pace, slipping the fob watch into his pocket for safe-keeping before running both hands through his thick hair in anxiety. He was letting his imagination run away with him. Though it was possible John had a keeper (if he was a Time Lord in the first place, but the evidence was pointed strongly in his favor), the Doctor didn't know how long John had been on this planet, obliviously playing human. The keeper could have died, but the more the Doctor thought about it, and with Sherlock's strange ability to see through the perception filter (he would have to examine this later), the more he started to believe John arrived on this planet alone.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, his deep voice effectively cutting through the Doctor's thoughts.

_Right. Right. Back to the matter at hand. Get John Watson out of harm's way before investigating the reason behind his Time Lord possessions. _The Doctor glanced once at Sherlock, who was still eerily watching his every move, but now with a sallow, unhealthy pallor hinting at his cheeks. Perhaps the Doctor should be voicing his thoughts aloud to keep Sherlock in the loop.

"I'm concerned about how they were able to locate him," the Doctor said at last, continuing so quickly Sherlock didn't have an opportunity to cut in, "I mean, no one should be able to know about the fob watch deal, which makes me want to think there's either something wrong with the timeline, or that I've got a disloyal friend." The Doctor grinded his teeth together, setting his jaw against old memories of betrayal. He forced himself to relax, and mused over the point that didn't much make sense to him, "But, entertaining the thought the Torchwood has a Time Lord file and information about ways we can hide ourselves, the chances of someone finding such a small item such as that fob watch is astronomical. Unless a government official privy to most happenings of the world somehow made it into your flat, I don't see how he could have been caught…"

The Doctor trailed off as Sherlock's face paled even further, but instead of looking sick to his stomach, Sherlock looked furious. "Mycroft," he muttered, clenching his fists.

_What an odd word_, the Doctor thought, and the Doctor liked odd words. However, it must not have meant anything good, for the way Sherlock had said it, the word was an expletive. Confused, the Doctor said, "I'm sorry?"

"Mycroft Holmes, my brother," Sherlock explained in a growl. His full mouth was pulled down into an angry snarl and his eyes slitted like a snake's. "He claims to occupy a 'minor' position in the British Government, but anyone with half a brain can tell he practically runs the country single-handedly. He visited Thursday morning and left abruptly after seeing that watch! That corpulent, pretentious, repugnant, imp-faced—"

The Doctor was sure Sherlock could have kept on for a few minutes, at least, but they were slowly running out of time. "We have to go," the Doctor said, trying to infuse urgency into the tone of his voice.

It must have worked, for Sherlock's mouth closed without protest. Seeing that he must have convinced Sherlock (or, at least made him believe he knew where John was so they could save him), the Doctor lead Sherlock out of 221B Baker Street and out into the brisk night. When the door closed behind them with a snap, the Doctor lengthened his stride. The stars twinkled above them both, dulled by the streetlamps that bleached out the night sky, and they stuck to the shadows, avoiding detection at all costs. It wasn't long until the Doctor and Sherlock came upon the blue police box, the letters above the wooden doors glowing brightly, slightly blurred around their usually sharp edges by the humidity, reaching out in a glare. From the darkness of the towering buildings, the TARDIS shown brightly through the cast of the early morning gloom.

Sherlock had stopped in his tracks somewhere behind him, but the Doctor was feeling much too anxious to be smug.

"Come on," the Doctor urged, the silver key slipping over the lock a few times before he was able to unlock it. It clicked, allowing him access, and he pushed the door open. He looked to Sherlock, who was still as a statue once again. "Quickly, inside!"

Sherlock's eyebrows were pushed together—it could be in thought, but there was something bewildered in the man's expression. Before he obeyed the Doctor's urgent orders, Sherlock took out a pocket magnifying glass and flounced about the phone box, examining the corners and chips in the wood, occasionally knocking on it as if to test its wood-like qualities (or whatever the genius human was doing… the Doctor really didn't have a clue), and lifting the compartment that hid the non-phone, assessing its rusted form.

Agitation no longer tickled within the Doctor's veins; it pulsed now, throbbed along with the rhythmic beating of his hearts. They were losing time. He needed to speed this process up. "Alright, yes, my spaceship is a phone box," the Doctor hummed in irritation as he ushered Sherlock through the door. He may have been a bit rough in his handling, as he had shoved the man inside. When Sherlock disappeared with a curious swish of his black coat, the Doctor closed the door boldly, only to have to sprint to the middle of the room to pull a certain consulting detective away from the controls.

"No, no, no, don't _touch_ those!" he shouted, taking Sherlock Holmes again by the elbow and forcing him away from the engine. Sherlock scowled but allowed himself to be manhandled. "Those are extremely delicate instruments, and if you set one the wrong way, we could end up thirty-four billion light years away…" he trailed off as he checked his precious controls, patting the TARDIS fondly. She purred in response.

Something seemed… off about this recent development. Unsure about what it was, the Doctor looked up from his appreciation of the TARDIS and saw the consulting detective standing, his back to the rail, his hands hanging loosely by his sides as if he didn't know what to do with them. His pale face, now lit by the interior light of his ship, had the consistency of ivory. There was something oddly, lost about the man's expression. The Doctor then realized… there hadn't been a comment about how his ship was bigger on the inside!

"What is it?" the Doctor asked, a bit concerned.

"Your machine is alive." Sherlock sounded odd, as if only half of his vocal chords were working. He seemed reluctant to look around him.

"Of course she's alive!" the Doctor cried, clucking softly to the heart of the TARDIS, "don't worry, old girl, he's new to this business, he didn't mean any harm…" as he cooed sweet nothings to his oldest friend, and she purred to him again. When he looked up, Sherlock's piercing gaze was on him once again. The Doctor straightened and folded his arms against his chest, smirking. "Do you believe me, now?"

The sickly pallor returned, and Sherlock swallowed. "I think I have no choice," he said at last, quietly and with a voice so low the Doctor could feel it throb in his eardrums. "Even if I didn't, the very fact that this place defies all laws of physics…"

At this declaration, the Doctor couldn't help but grin and let out a little "yes!" of excitement. When Sherlock looked at him oddly, the Doctor cleared his throat sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck. "Sorry, I kind of like it when people say it's bigger on the inside…" he cleared his throat again when Sherlock tilted his head up as if to look down at him, highly offended. "Right then." Not understanding what he had done to offend the great Sherlock Holmes, the Doctor typed in the coordinates of the Torchwood Institute of London, placed his hand on the lever, grinned at Sherlock, and said, "Allons-y!"

He pulled the lever into gear, and instantly the TARDIS was thrown into the time vortex, where she battled out the elements and rattled the passengers inside. Sherlock let out an undignified yelp of surprise and grasped onto the bar behind him, and when he got his balance, he threw a shocked glare at the Doctor as if his falling over was entirely his fault.

The Doctor, who was holding onto the control center, leaning over buttons he could very well press if he were not careful, laughed as the TARDIS shook them both, its signature in-motion noise whining above the rattling and the feet shifting on the metal grate as if to better stable themselves. When she halted, landing with a deep thud that echoed through the extensive halls of the TARDIS, the controls and chairs and many other of the Doctor's possessions vibrated until they all came to a stand-still.

"What… on earth…" Sherlock gasped, choking as if he had sprinted for a few miles without pause. When his breathing returned to normal, Sherlock hadn't let go of the rail; his knuckles were bloodless and shone pale as bone through his skin.

The Doctor watched him with a grin, leaning against the engine, his arms crossed and feeling perfectly at ease (other than the thoughts of saving John Watson, which were quick and urging, but he needed Sherlock Holmes to come out of his shock more effectively before he could do any of that). "The more correct question would be 'where.' Where on Earth, or when, and yes, we're on Earth… at least, we should be…" the Doctor ran around the side of the blinking control center to check his screen, and it was a relief to see the coordinates and date matched what he had entered in perfectly.

As the Doctor tinkered slightly with his controls, making sure they were perfectly parked, Sherlock spoke behind him, succeeding in making him jump. "You said earlier that John wasn't human."

The Doctor turned to see Sherlock, his face impassive once more, his hands behind his back, his shoulders straight, and not a curl out of place. And this wasn't precisely the conversation the Doctor wanted to have _now_… he had hoped they could spare these questions until _after_ they had saved John. "_Well,_" the Doctor drew out, leaning awkwardly against the engine, running a hand through his hair, "I wouldn't say that… technically, he is still human…"

"You said John was a hidden Time Lord." The last two words sounded odd coming from the detective's mouth, as if he couldn't quite form the correct vowels, but there was nothing off about the granite hardness of his face.

Unsure of where Sherlock was going with this, the Doctor continued warily, "There's a good possibility that he _could_ be one, possibly, maybe…"

"You think he is."

"Yeah," the Doctor admitted at last.

"Do you think he could be another version of you?"

Shocked, the Doctor spun completely around, his back against the TARDIS, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. He hadn't told Sherlock anything about the mission; he hadn't said anything about how the Torchwood idiots believe John to be him, he hadn't told Sherlock he was a Time Lord. "How'd you figure that?" the Doctor asked, baffled but curious.

A side of his lips twitched up in a way that it took the Doctor a moment to realize the man was amused. "Ever since I met you, you've kept the human race at an objective standpoint, referring to them as something you're not a part of, and something you're glad you're not a part of, seeing as you say the words with a slightly condescending lilt to the tone of your voice. Connect that with the glaring facts of your impossible ship and your binary cardiovascular system—"

"Hang on!" the Doctor said, alarmed. "How'd you figure I have two hearts?"

Sherlock's brow contorted lightly, mildly offended. "_Please_," he said with the ghost of a smirk, "there's the irregularity in your wrist, the different build of the muscles in your chest… need I go on?" he didn't wait for the Doctor to even attempt to interrupt, tilting his head down and keeping his probing eyes on the Doctor's face, riveting him in place as he continued in a monotonous analytical voice, "Conclusion: you're an extraterrestrial. It took me a while to believe it myself, but after a reworking of my Mind Palace, I was able to wrap my head around the illogicality of the situation, it just made sense. You said there was an entire government branch dedicated for the research of aliens, which must mean there is more than one species out there. So what species are _you?_ This was a difficult question to ask, seeing as my knowledge of the solar system is not up to par—John would say it's non-existent, but that's not true, I now know the earth travels around the sun, not a hard fact when everyone's been repeating it to me ever since John posted that rubbish—but I would bet you're a Time Lord. Actually, I know you're a Time Lord, as when you explained the mechanics of John's watch, you said you had been forced to use one—something only 'Time Lords' can use. Besides, how else would you know so much about the species unless you were one yourself?"

The Doctor was light-headed. "But why do you think John could be another version of me?"

With a sigh of the long-suffering, Sherlock said, "When you eliminate the possible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true. You said to me: '_I'm rare and valuable goods across the universe.' _You also said that this Torchwood Institute shouldn't have a complete file on you. This implies that you're a race going extinct, or what I find to be more likely, the last of your kind."

The Doctor felt like he had been punched in the gut with a battering ram. "How…?"

"The shape of the control panel," Sherlock pointed out, gesturing to the oddly shaped mechanism the Doctor leaned against, "It says it's meant for more than one person—or Time Lord—but there's no one else around. Implies you're either banished, a renegade, or a freelancer, but the way you reacted to having another one of you around was odd; to you, the possibility of John being a Time Lord is an unexpected miracle, and it makes you more than willing to help a complete stranger out of a potentially fatal position.

"Now, about the part about John being you," Sherlock continued, shifting his weight confidently, almost reminding the Doctor of a child who figured something out for himself and was desperate to show his parents, "you corrected my question, not only by saying 'where,' but also '_when.'_ You call yourself a 'Time Lord.' Basic English language skills indicate that this means you are a Lord of Time. Given your name and what you said to me earlier, your ship travels through time—something that has been proven an impossible feat by human beings, but obviously not for those of your kind. This is something you're used to, and obviously something you use to bait unsuspecting humans to come with you" (here, the Doctor opened his mouth in outrage—how dare he imply he kidnaps humans as bait instead of company—but Sherlock just waved his indignant protest away) "No, don't be like that, Doctor, it's apparent you grow lonely, being the last of your kind. Now shut up and let me explain: the prospect of time travel opens up an infinite amount of possibilities, including the option of you meeting a past or future self. Now, if you factor in how John has a Time Lord's fob watch and that you've principally admitted you're the sole survivor of the race, it comes to the supposition that John may be a future self. If it had been in the past, you would have remembered."

After that long-winded explanation, delivered so quickly and with such fervor it was almost as if a tornado had passed through and ripped through the TARDIS without doing any damage except to mess up his hair and to twist his brain into ways it wasn't meant to be strained. Indeed, the Doctor's brain was buzzing with an excess of white noise. Was this what his companions felt like after _he, _the Doctor, went off on a tangent such as that? If it was, then the Doctor didn't blame them for the blank looks he would receive for such behavior. The silence of the control room was oppressive, and the Doctor just stared at the consulting detective, gob-smacked and with his mouth open, eyes wide enough to filter his shock. After a moment, Sherlock fidgeted uncomfortably and the Doctor let out a slow breath. "That was scarily accurate," he said, looking down and running a hand through his hair once more.

"So?" Sherlock prompted.

"So what?" the Doctor asked, bewildered. What more could the consulting detective have to say that he hadn't already?

Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently. "Do you think John could be another version of you?"

The Doctor eyed the man carefully, but couldn't discern anything from his blank, pale face. "I did at first," the Doctor admitted slowly, "for a moment, I believed he _could _be a future me, but I'm usually careful about not running into any of my past selves and I wouldn't have sent myself to a time I travel to constantly. Then again, I wouldn't have been able to know, and neither would he… but then I took a careful look at his watch." The Doctor dug out the fob watch he had taken from the floor of 221B and held it between him and the detective, careful to avoid letting his shadow obscure the Gallifreyan lettering. "See this line here?" he asked, outlining a thick circle overlapping a thinner one with his finger, "That's an age line. It tells me how old he is."

"And?" Sherlock sounded genuinely interested.

The Doctor grinned and pocketed the watch. "He's far too young to be me. Only ninety years… just a kid!"

Sherlock looked momentarily stunned at this revelation. "How old are you, then?"

His grin widened. "Nine-hundred and three."

With a laugh at the disbelief on the detective's face, the Doctor stole away to the door, cracking it open to see where he landed, hoping to high Gallifrey that there wouldn't be a Torchwood army pointing their guns at the TARDIS. He really did hate guns—so unnecessarily violent.

"Incredible," Sherlock breathed from behind the Doctor, his presence looming only slightly over the Doctor's shoulder. The detective must have been talking about the fact that they travelled by disappearing from one place and appearing in another, because they had not exactly arrived in a prime spot… unless Sherlock Holmes had a fetish from rows and rows of cardboard boxes. They had arrived in a storage room, hidden in the partial darkness.

"Come on," he whispered to Sherlock, slipping out the TARDIS door. Once Sherlock was by his side, he closed the TARDIS door with a snap and crouched low, sprinting and flitting through the gaps between storage units, wondering only vaguely what Torchwood could be hiding (there was a light itch underneath his skin to go digging through those easy-to-open storage units… just one little flick of his sonic… however, he wasn't here to sabotage this annoying alien research facility… not yet, at least).

Just before they reached the exit to the storage room, the dim fixtures lighting their way flashed to be a blinding red as thick, steel walls sectioned off most of the storage from the Doctor and Sherlock, who were now both trapped by the door and with no way to reach the TARDIS. A loud, piercing alarm broke through the sound barriers, muffled as it attempted to penetrate the heavy steel walls around them.

"_What?"_ the Doctor shouted, confused. He pulled out his sonic screwdriver and ran the blue sonic tip against the bolts and creases within the wall, kicking at the wall when it refused to budge. Deadlocked! Damn (but how did that make any sense at all? They had deadlocking technology, but they didn't use it on their doors? Unless they didn't know sonic waves don't work on it… Torchwood was either extremely oblivious or extremely stupid. Or maybe Jack didn't think to tell the London Institute their mistake). "_What?"_ He turned to Sherlock, whose gaze flickered from the newly formed walls, the high ceiling, and their only way out (a door right behind them). "There's no possible way we could have triggered that!"

"No," Sherlock agreed, his gaze wavering on the door. The Doctor also found it odd that they weren't being swarmed by Torchwood operatives at the moment. "No, it's not for us… someone else must have triggered the alarm." In the flaring lights of the storage room, Sherlock looked pensive. "Question is: who?"


	6. Miracle Work 5

**Sorry this is late! I was working on this chapter, and realized how long it was, and I didn't get to all the stuff I wanted to do :P I hope you enjoy, anyway.**

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6

Captain Jack Harkness was excited.

Worried was another emotion he felt, but it thrummed in his veins with less persistency than the excitement, and he bared his teeth against the harsh, bitter wind of the early morning. It wasn't quite a grimace, but neither was it a smile, either. He hadn't seen his friend the Doctor since he had been dropped off in Cardiff a while back (had it been three years already?) after that weird and terrible (now non-existent) year as the Master's experiment. And with nothing else to look forward to, Jack threw himself back into his work with Torchwood, trying what he could to help keep the Earth safe. It was almost like he was working alongside the Doctor again, though his Time Lord friend had not been entirely impressed when he heard Jack worked for Torchwood (which was understandable, of course, given how horrible the government branch had been—and still was. To add more bacon to the pan, Rose had been torn away from the very place). It was unfortunate, and also very sad, but Jack worked for Torchwood _Cardiff_, not London. There was a huge difference between the two, and it was a difference Jack was very proud of.

Jack scowled to himself as he recalled the very reason for those differences. Charles Marigold—even the name brought a disgusted curl to his lips. At first, he seemed a promising fellow, if not a bit stuffy; his straight nose stuck in the air, the very lines of his aristocratic face condescending as he glanced upon Jack and his team with his dull hazel eyes and an air of disapproval. His trim figure, as Jack had grown to accept, was always tucked neatly into black suits, usually with a solidly colored tie that did nothing to brighten his appearance. Jack had been very willing to stick out his hand and say hello, but after one meeting announcing the return of Torchwood to London, he had difficulties to remain civilized. Marigold's words were as smooth as they were terrible, promising progress, yes, but at the potential cost of future visiting alien's lives. And what was worse, no matter how sound Jack's arguments were, Marigold's smooth tongue soothed over the conference room with the professionalism and discreteness of a government clean-up crew.

Furious, Jack stood up from the table, declared himself no longer a part of Marigold's organization (and how could he, when it went against the very thing the Doctor tried his best to prevent?), and set up base in Cardiff. His rage had been so great his lungs burned from lack of air; he didn't trust himself to not say anything damaging, or worse: use that energy to attack the smug, red-headed man.

It wasn't much later, once both branches were competing for jobs (and a good portion of them arrived in London, which was bad chance), when Jack started his petition. It ended up being one of the worst mistakes of his life. He should have known that posing a front against Marigold wouldn't have ended well; the man was slick as a snake, and he slithered out of Jack's grasp at the last moment. In a turn of events, Jack went from having the upper hand to the short end of the stick, and his employment in London was no longer existent; Marigold had twisted the contract so that Jack was to be arrested on sight if he was seen in London again. If Jack didn't have friends in communication and transportation, getting places would have been difficult or slow; his vortex manipulator had been broken for some time.

Jack gritted his teeth against the influx of memories, stapling his anger down so it would settle along with his anticipation. Not four days ago he received a video call from the London Head Operative, and his words still rang in Jack's head, making his hands slicken with sweat and a stinging dread to filter through his stomach walls (_"…We have your so-called friend, Jack. You remember the Doctor, don't you? Don't worry, we'll take good care of him… so long as he cooperates… all those years he's lived and learned… he would know a terrible lot about technology, wouldn't he?")_. At the time, he knew he had shown shock at the information, and then a quick anger, at Marigold, himself, and the Doctor. If it weren't for Marigold, his life would have been much simpler (and perhaps people in his trade would take him more seriously), and there would be less threats to the Earth on a daily basis. If it weren't for Jack's momentary loss of his anger control (but people _weren't_ listening to him!), he would still be able to go to London without having to request it ahead of time and wait for the board's approval (and usually, it was anything but). Nonetheless he was angry at the Doctor for allowing himself to get captured; the Doctor knew better than that! He _was _better than that.

Worried for his friend (but conveniently hidden behind his rage and professional dictation), Jack ordered his team to look up all information about the current situation with the Doctor. Unsurprisingly, their access had been denied. Even with his top-notch passcode Jack couldn't break into the records. He and his ever loyal team tried hacking into it, but they ran into a firewall that nearly completely destroyed their systems. Defeated, but unwilling to admit it, Jack waved his team away and locked himself in his office, ignoring their attempts to revive him. He knew what they were doing, but he didn't want their console; he didn't want nor need their meaningless words, for the fight was not yet over. Instead, he began to plan, and though none of his ideas looked very promising (and most had glaring holes and too many what if's to be even remotely comfortable), he decided only a few hours ago that he was wasting time and that he would have to act now. He always worked better under pressure, anyway. And it would be easy: all he would have to do was stick close to the shadows, not get caught, and get the Doctor and himself as far away from the London Institute as possible.

Jack took a steadying breath and watched the white mist of his exhale catch the distant light of the distant streetlamps, staring up at the darkened sky as if he could see the covered stars beyond. His back was against the icy cement wall of the Torchwood Institute of London, his dark blue Captain's coat from World War II brushing mid-calf, doing nothing to calm him. Energy thrummed nervously through his veins, keeping him avidly awake at this early time of morning. It was adrenaline, he knew, for he wasn't supposed to be in this city, no less at the very place he was expelled from, but it was fear as well; fear of being found out, fear of what he would find…

He looked down at his watch, the minute and hour hands creating a right angle, both pointing away from himself. It was three in the morning, and the seconds were still falling away. He had two hours until maintenance checked into the building, and about a half an hour until security changed shifts. Jack was using the information he had acquired from when he worked in the building himself, and he was hoping the schedules hadn't changed. If they hadn't, and if they still kept the same workers (and Jack couldn't see why they wouldn't have), then the man currently working as the lone security detail would be on his nap until ten minutes before the shift-change. That gave Jack twenty minutes to find his wacky friend. It would be a close call, but he was certain he would be able to find him.

Adrenaline still buzzing underneath his skin, Jack bounced twice on the balls of his feet before pushing off, running quickly along the glass wall of the building, hoping very much that no one on the inside could see him. Though his steps were as silent as he could make them, he still felt like he made too much noise: his breathing was too heavy, hot in his lungs and making it too hard to hear anything else; the irritating scratching of his trousers rubbing against each other as he ran; his shoes tapped on the pavement, and paranoia rubbed at him when he believed he was being followed. Quicker than he expected, he reached the back end of the building, where the darkness was so overwhelming he could barely see the hand in front of his face.

Slowly, Jack reached into his pocket with his right hand and closed his fingers around the cool metal of his ray gun, and switched on its power lever. As it warmed up the gun gave a high pitched whine, and he batted his fingertips impatiently against the handle.

"Come on, come on," he coaxed to his sonic blaster—something he had repaired with outdated parts and charged with a toaster… he hadn't expected much from his improvised creation, and how it was working was a mystery to Jack, but he wasn't one to complain. It worked a lot slower than it should, and the lack of speed made Jack anxious.

The green indicator light blinked alertly, and Jack grinned as he focused his gaze from a wary survey of his empty surroundings to the blank space of the grey brick wall, aimed his gun, and pressed the trigger. Instantly, a large square of the wall disintegrated, revealing a dim layout of tiled floor and bulky shadows of neighboring tables and chairs. The hole was so perfectly shaped that it seemed sliced open by a giant cookie cutter. Glancing once behind him at the dark street and the reflective, black pavement, Jack crouched and entered through the man-made tunnel. Once completely inside, Jack switched the lever on his blaster to reverse, and replaced the wall as if the great square hole had never existed at all.

Jack took a deep breath to settle his nerves. Phase One: complete. He had successfully broken into the Torchwood Institute of London. The urge to bounce on his toes to rid of his nervous energy before it reclaimed its hold on Jack once more, but after a few moments of deep breathing, he converted his nervousness into courage, hardening himself to his task. Anxiety would only cause him to make mistakes, and mistakes were a luxury he couldn't afford when the Doctor's life was on the line. He shook his head again, his dark fringe falling into his eyes: he needed to stay focused on his next task. Phase Two: find the Doctor… but where would Marigold keep him?

One more calming breath and Jack was running again, the hem of his long coat nicking the back of his calves as he jogged in the blindingly white halls, dimly lit by little globes—grainy triangles of white and gray in the otherwise dark building. He turned his head left and right, checking the square signs with the miniscule writing. They blurred from the lack of adequate lighting, but they were still legible.

After ten minutes of searching the institute's halls, peering into fogged windows and zooming as quickly as he could around corners in order to cut his time, Jack started to grow hot around the collar and sweaty under his arms. He didn't have much time left, and with every second that ticked by on his wristwatch anxiety climbed up his throat. He needed to find the Doctor, and he needed to find him fast.

His breathing labored and his leg muscles burning from exertion, Jack paused in the hallway, pressing his sweaty palms against the smooth, cold wall as he heaved, catching his breath. He was just thinking about how much more difficult his not-plan was once put to motion when a sign caught his eye. It wasn't any different than the others—small, blue, with clear writing—but when Jack narrowed his eyes at it, he smirked. He knew exactly where the Doctor was now. It was also a dead give-away to see the large amount of identification processes next to the door; where would Marigold keep the Doctor? The question was easily answered: he would be kept in the most protected room Torchwood London had.

Jack eyed the electronic locks with disbelief and condescension to equal a Time Lord's. He lifted his blaster to eye level and pulled the trigger, creating another square hole in the wall large enough to admit him, and sighed. Twenty-first century security was laughable compared to what he had to deal with three millennia in the future; blasting a hole through the wall was hardly a challenge. He truly had the impulse to laugh at Earth's best systems, but he contained it and replaced the wall by the reverse button of his gun.

Jack turned around and stared at the testing facility with no short ire. He stood on the glossy ramp, a steel rail the only obstacle separating him from the rest of the pristine room. The tables were white and clean, the instruments either beeping or blinking green and red as overnight scans prepared to record nightly findings for the scientists to discover in the morning. Fire licked within his stomach, but Jack pushed down his frustration and kept a clinical eye as he skimmed the (unethical) experiments, doing his best to keep on task. He would have liked to burn it all to the ground, progress be damned, but he was here for only one thing.

However, Jack couldn't help but cringe at the sight of the half-torn into Slitheen, its lime green skin far from decaying as it peeled back in separate, noticeable layers. As Jack descended into the main floor of the room, he neared the experiment, unable to look away as a yellow, pus-like substance dripped into the pink central cavity. The smell was awful—of death and something that shouldn't be hot—and Jack gagged, stumbling away from it until he was a preferable distance away. He put his hands on his knees and bent over to breathe, expelling the stench from his lungs with a few wracking coughs. Once he could breathe again, Jack looked up, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and straightened immediately, ignoring the airy feeling in his head like he was recovering from a head cold.

He had finally found the Doctor.

Of course, It wasn't exactly who Jack was looking for; the man clamped to the gurney by his wrists and ankles (a distant part of his mind remarked how kinky it was, and that perhaps he should try it sometime in the future) was short, blonde, and stocky instead of tall, thin, and brunette. Jack knew the Doctor could regenerate, changing every cell in his body to avoid death, but it was odd to meet the same man in a different body (he would know—he had done it before). The face was something entirely different as well: the nose was too small, the lines too plentiful, and the bone structure not visible enough to be his Doctor… but he did see the ears had returned. Poor bloke.

_Hello, hello, _Jack thought as he eyed the abdominal muscles the Doctor acquired (and the corded arms), and he started when his wandering eye came to the angry, purplish scar that twisted and puckered at a center on his left shoulder, just above his heart. Intrigued, Jack wondered how in the hell the Doctor got a bullet wound (surely regeneration would have discouraged such a scar), but Jack was sure this unconscious appreciation would not be valued (and would seem a tad creepy) by the Doctor. Besides, he could always compliment the Doctor on a later day.

The blonde man was asleep, head drooped to his chest, his ribs countable through the mottled skin with every breath. Odd bruises blotched his skin and lacerations cut through his chest, and Jack had to push down another rise of rage (later. He could punch Marigold and his smug nose later) so he could raise his blaster with steady hands. Jack aimed it at the constraints keeping the blonde man upright on the tilted surgeon's board. They melted away, and without anything to hold him up, the man fell bonelessly into Jack's waiting arms.

Any other situation, Jack would be thrilled. But it wasn't like that… never like that with his friend, the Doctor.

"Wha…?" the man breathed groggily, his temple pressed into the fabric of Jack's shoulder and his eyelids fluttering with exhaustion. "Wha… lemme go…" The man's bloodless legs twitched underneath him, and Jack supposed it was a useless effort to run. He ignored the man's protests and continued to drag the man—who was heavier than he looked—to the side of the room, where a back door existed.

"Shh," Jack hissed through his teeth, trying to be quiet and comforting at the same time. He rubbed the man's back with a gloved hand in what he hoped were soothing motions. "It's alright, Doctor, it's me, Jack."

"—the fuck—?" the man mumbled, eyes still closed. His brow contorted in confusion. "How many times do I have t' tell you nutters? I'm not this Doctor…"

Jack smiled over his rage, patting his near-unconscious friend on his undamaged shoulder—he would find something to pin Marigold on and end the London Institute once and for all. Did they believe the Doctor would say anything incriminating? Did they believe they could beat it out of him? Had they hit the Doctor hard enough on the head that they had caused a lapse in his memory? He could see a large, scabbed-over cut on the back of the blonde man's head, and he decided memory loss was not a ridiculous concept.

"Don't worry," Jack said, dragging the blonde man to the back of the lab. The man's bare foot caught on the edge of a counter that held about twenty beakers (all filled with colorful, suspicious solutions), and Jack wondered if carrying the man over his shoulder would be any easier. "I'm a friend," Jack continued, tightening his grip underneath the man's arms as he struggled, trying to free himself. Jack wasn't about to let go of the man anytime soon. Not while they were in the enemy's lair, at least. "I'm here to take you away. We'll go someplace safe and figure out how to get your memory back."

The blonde man froze, the groaned, "No… take me back…"

"You're just confused, Doctor," he chuckled. The heavy steel leaned against his back as Jack waddled out of the testing facility with his prize, and once Jack was outside of the laboratory, it wavered shut, pushing air by his feet and into his face. Jack propped the blonde man up against the chilled brick, bringing a flashlight out from his pocket in the same motion. Crouching on his heels, Jack shined the light into the man's eyes—which were colored in a blue deeper than sapphire—watching as the pupil dilation shrunk to pin-pricks.

Jack exhaled, feeling both relieved and grim. The man was responsive, at least, and not trapped in unconsciousness or a forced sleep (so much so evident as seen from the man's attempt to escape from Jack's hold… but Jack was willing to bet the man suffered just a little brain damage—why would he want to _stay_ with his captors?). But as Jack peered into the man's eyes again, peeling open one eyelid after the other (this caused the man's breathing to accelerate in distress), he could see the man was in some sort of pain. There wasn't a concussion from what Jack could see (but he wasn't a doctor, so he was open to the possibility that he could be wrong), but the man was still shirtless and shoeless, and he shivered in the dim hallway.

When the man groaned, eyes still closed, Jack asked, "Hey, you alright?"

The man's eyes snapped open, and Jack started back in surprise and slight horror as the man reached up and wrapped strong fingers around his throat, using Jack's compromised position to force him to the ground. Stunned speechless, Jack was unable to defend himself as the man dug a knee into his spine, shifting his grip to a choke hold, his elbow underneath Jack's chin.

_What the fuck just happened? _Jack's entire body screamed, sending shocks of adrenaline rumbling through his veins as the arm squeezed tighter and the knee dug deeper. His nose was pressed to the floor, his face numbing against the cold tile, one eye forced shut.

"No, I'm not bloody alright," the man said, his voice a trembling, growling tenor, "One minute, I'm asleep at home, the next, I'm strapped to a bloody gurney, being prodded and sliced and punched by some conspiracy nutters with government funding!" His voice dropped the growl, and the man was shouting now, squeezing Jack's neck with greater might, forcing the air from his lungs. Jack felt his face start to warm as his lungs burned. "And now I'm being kidnapped _again_ by some American dressed like a bloody vicar! What the fuck—? Who are you? What's going on? You better answer my questions or so help me God I will snap your neck."

Distantly, Jack wondered where the Doctor learned to speak like that (for he had never heard the Doctor use such coarse language before), but the wonder disappeared along with his air supply. Jack wheezed against the hold on his neck, his throat burning as though wrenched with a noose, his vision blurring around the edges and turning grey. He didn't want to fight this man (who could potentially be his friend) for he feared it would make matters worse. "I'm a… friend!" he choked out, using the very little air reserves he had left. The man could kill him if he didn't ease up soon, but it wouldn't cause any problem than a few seconds lost time. Moreover, the grip was starting to get painful. "Let… me… up!"

The man's arm loosened, but did not let go. Jack coughed heavily as sweet, cool air was allowed access to his systems, soothing over the angry red heat that still lingered in his throat and chest. "I've never seen you before in my life," the man growled, "Who are you? What do you want?"

"Captain Jack Harkness, head operative at Torchwood Cardiff and friend of the Doctor," Jack wheezed, his voice creaking over the pain in his throat. He breathed a few moments, feeling his face cool after a coughing fit. "I want to help. Get off me."

Jack exhaled in relief as the man clambered (or, more like slumped) off Jack's back, feeling much lighter and less like he was about to die. As Jack picked himself up, he heard a muted thud as the man's back met the wall again and a hush of air as it pushed out of tired lips. When Jack stood, he rubbed the back of his neck (which was arguably less sore than the front), and glanced down at the blonde man, whose limbs were sprawled unceremoniously about him, useless and immobile. His head tilted back as he gasped for breath, his chest heaving with exhaustion. Jack was surprised the man had taken him down, and with such ease; looking at the man now, he couldn't even stand, limbs trembling as if he swam the entire span of the Atlantic Ocean.

"I'm not your enemy," Jack said again, his voice slowly returning to normal. It ached with every word, but it was manageable. "I'm trying to get you away from this madhouse—"

"Don't you work here?" the man asked, clumsily rubbing at his eyes. Jack denied he looked like an adorable toddler who had just woken up from a nap, groggy and tousle-haired.

"Different branch, different motives," he shrugged, trying not to feel offended. He crouched so he was eye-level with the blonde man and prepared to help him up, hand on the shoulder that wasn't a twisted mess. "Come on, we need to leave. I don't want to be here when the security guard figures out he's supposed to be working."

"I need to stay here," the blonde man croaked, his voice tired and scratched with pain. He opened his eyes once more, this time with less awareness and purpose than before, and shrugged off Jack's hand. "I have no idea what's going on, but I can't escape. They'll catch me, and then bring in my friend. He promised."

Guilt slid easily through Jack and dropped heavily to his stomach, making him feel slightly nauseas. He had forgotten the Doctor kept companions, and he wasn't sure whether it was a good or a bad thing the blonde man had kept this with him in his subconscious. Where was the companion, now? Did he (more likely: she) have a plan? Surely it didn't involve the Doctor losing his memory… or did it? The Doctor was strange like that, sometimes, especially when he placed trust in the form of his entire life in the hands of his sure-to-be-panicking companions.

And Jack was positive that he knew exactly who 'He' was. Torchwood London was very effective at making Jack's blood boil.

"Look," Jack said, "Protecting your friend won't be a problem, Doctor. I've a team and a sonic blaster (which might need to be charged soon), but first we need to get out…"

"I'm not the Doctor."

Jack didn't have time for this; who else could this man be if not the Doctor? He was the only living test subject in the entire facility, and Marigold was too ecstatic (and too smug) for him not to have the Doctor in captivity. Unless Torchwood London was mistaken… but it was too high a risk to fake a Time Lord. Something, and Jack didn't know what, made his competition believe that this man here was the last Time Lord in existence. And Jack was going to find out what.

"Who are you, then?" Jack asked. He thought that if he humored the prisoner, he would be able to move the night along a little faster.

"I'm John. John Watson," the blonde man said, breathing a little less heavily through his nose as he took in the dim, blank hallway.

Jack stared at him, stunned, before his lips lifted over his cheeks and spread from ear to ear, effectively splitting his face in half. That very moment, he had forgotten he was in a restricted area; he had forgotten he was on a tight schedule where every second was precious as gold. He had even forgotten his resentment towards Marigold. Everything around him, from the half-lit hallways colored in grey and brown and white to the chilled air wafting around his face, seemed to disappear as he focused on the man in front of him in a new light.

"No, shit," Jack breathed, still grinning. John raised his eyebrows, lips pursed, as Jack continued, "Really? John Watson? As in Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson?"

His momentary disbelief heightened into excitement, so much that he was nearly breathless with it, when John replied with a "the very same."

Jack couldn't believe his luck! He had grown up with the famous stories of Sherlock Holmes, as written from the perspective of his faithful and long-time friend, Dr. John Watson, and when he came across the blog nearly a year ago, he couldn't believe he had forgotten his childhood heroes; his team at Cardiff couldn't understand his obsession over the website (both John's and Sherlock's), and they didn't understand that this was history in the making. His grin still hadn't disappeared when he took the man's unsuspecting hand and wrung it in greeting, making the man gasp in surprise and pain.

"That's excellent!" he replied, the energy fueling him renewed and jittering—he felt the equivalence of drinking fifteen cups of coffee in one sitting. "Oh, I'm a big fan of your blog—I especially loved the one about the Speckled Blonde…" Jack then became aware that he was gushing, for he could feel his admiration oozing with every word he dropped on the poor man. A faint, buzzing sensation prickled along his neck and arms. Usually, that sensation came when he was in close proximity with another; John was obviously feeling uncomfortable with the closeness. Realizing his mistake, Jack cleared his throat and sat back on his heels, forcing his smile to resemble something a little less manic. "Sorry… not the time… but," he squinted his eyes at John, trying to see past the bland features and the tortured body to understand how the others found a Time Lord in him, but was unable. "Why are you in Torchwood?"

John tilted his head up, a wry smile picking at his cut lips. "That does seem to be the question of the day," he said, holding out his hand. Jack took it immediately and helped John unsteadily to his feet, grasping his elbow until he had the strength to shake it off. John instantly paled, all color rushing from his face, leaving his eyes looking bruised and large, but eventually it passed and he straightened his shoulders, looking pained but stronger. His gaze sharpened as he flicked his eyes to the left and right of him before settling on Jack. "It's not like I haven't been kidnapped before," John continued, "and I can take care of myself. Thanks, but no thanks, I'd rather stay."

"You're crazy," Jack said, astonished.

For the first time since Jack found John Watson in the testing facility, John smiled. "I know I am. Yet, people always insist it's Sherlock who needs the help." He finished his musing, and took in Jack's appearance, from his slacks, suspenders, and white, long-sleeved shirt to his navy blue coat. He grinned again, "Costume party, mate?" but shook his head as if berating himself for becoming distracted, and said before Jack could defend himself, "Sorry, I didn't catch your name earlier. What is it?"

"Captain Jack Harkness," Jack said proudly, beaming his most charming smile. He was about to say 'Hello,' and indeed his mouth was open, lips forming the ghost of the word, when he was interrupted by a shrill siren blaring through the halls, echoing off the confined space and forcing his eardrums to ring with a default tone in order to save them from excessive damage. The lights, though most of them were dark without source while the rest were dimmed along the walls, flared to life in flashes of red, almost the color of the burnt dusk sun. After the initial shock of the loud, unexpected noise faded, his mind adopted a panicked state in place of his original blank fear, and all of his half-created plans turned to dust. He placed his hands over his ears, turning to face John Watson, who had mimicked his actions and had paled considerably.

"The bloody cameras!" Jack swore at himself, raising his voice so it could be heard over the ear-splitting alarms. "I can't believe I forgot about the bloody cameras!"

"Then what are we waiting for?" John barked in return. "Run!"

Xx-{X}-xX

Sherlock Holmes had never considered himself a patient man. No, patience was something more along John's area, and considering what John had to put up with on a daily basis, he would have to be. Sherlock knew this all too well, and he was grateful for it.

However, Sherlock didn't have John by his side at this moment, meaning Sherlock's patience-level was quickly wearing thin as the Doctor (obviously a chosen name—choice of title meaning the thin man considers himself to be the cleverest man in the room and that he fixes things other than human beings… Sherlock would bet his violin the man wasn't a physician—and it was a name chosen to hide behind. Obscuring his real name for fear of being tracked or found out? Was he a criminal on another planet?) paced back and forth before the span of the thick metal wall, muttering angrily under his breath. The Doctor's sneakers sheefed across the dusty floor without much purpose other than to keep moving as he waved around the odd, metal rod he called a 'sonic screwdriver' (another object Sherlock could explain—he had never seen such technology before, and the Doctor had used it to close a door from a distance. Fascinating). He seemed oblivious to the flashing lights and the muffled sirens alerting all who could hear that there was an intruder.

Sherlock considered the man before him: this alien who named himself a Time Lord, a being that was humanoid in skeletal structure but not much else (or, perhaps, humans were Time Lord—Gallifreyan? He had heard the Doctor use the word but he was unsure it meant the same thing—in appearance instead, seeing as the alien species most likely came before). The alien seemed to constantly have a plan, or, at least the illusion of having one, as Sherlock was familiar with. Obviously, the Doctor was intelligent, and having lived for so long (something Sherlock still had trouble wrapping his mind around—oh, the things he must have _seen_ in all those years) he must have extensive knowledge of the universe.

Considering his logic and his faults, Sherlock had surprised himself at how easily he had accepted this knowledge of other worlds. He was unconcerned with the study of the stars, for even he knew the conclusion of evidence (or lack thereof) when he saw it. But there _had_ been odd happenings: the strange stories John would laughingly pull up because he knew the speculations would annoy Sherlock (_"Look, Sherlock, crop circles. The aliens must be really ill if they're asking for a doctor"_); the mysterious bombing of Big Ben those years ago when he'd been high and Lestrade had been as clueless as ever, and Sherlock had to sort through eyewitness accounts where no one had the same story (to this day, the case remained unsolved, but the tower had been fixed ages ago and Sherlock still held on to the belief that something had _crashed _into it, not blown it from the inside out. The facts matched!); and there was the oddity of Mycroft being more tight-lipped than usual… the man couldn't help but drop hints of his extremely dull political happenings. And though extraterrestrial life wasn't the deduction he would have come to himself, it did fit the evidence provided.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in irritation; the alarms were breaking into his thoughts, effectively distracting him and scattering his observations until his mind was entirely cleared. This was beginning to get a little tedious, and he didn't think the Doctor would stop his rambling any time soon. With a sigh, Sherlock slipped his fingers into his pocket and pulled out John's fob watch (he had taken it from the Doctor when he passed him, for he wasn't entirely sure he wanted his friend's supposed lost memories in the hands of a stranger). He rolled it in his pale fingers, admiring the orangish gleam the irregular light painted on the casing of the broken machinery. The Doctor had said that the watch kept the memories and biology of a hidden Time Lord, but he didn't say how they could be released.

Curiosity twitched in his extremities, and the watch nearly fumbled to the ground. Now that he knew the possibility of time travel and other planets, Sherlock's intrigue was nearly unbearable. He wanted to go, he wanted to know all there was—for the sake of the Work, of course. It was interesting, and his friend, John, was supposedly one of the only beings left of a nearly extinct species (that is, if the Doctor could be trusted to be correct about this information, but the mad man apparently believed every word that came out of his mouth to be the truth, so Sherlock had no choice but to defer to him—how infuriating). It was true that Sherlock didn't care for astrology, but if John was what the Doctor thought, Sherlock would at least try to learn.

"…but that would involve contact with UNIT, and I don't really feel like involving them… so unnecessary…" the Doctor's frustration bled through his voice as he spoke, and he finally paused in his steps to look at Sherlock, scratching the back of his head absently with his screwdriver. "So, what do you think we should do?"

Sherlock didn't look up from the fob watch, turning it over in his hands. It warmed the pads of his fingers like his laptop would do after hours of use.

"How'd you get that?" The Doctor sounded surprised, and Sherlock stopped his inspection of the fob watch to see the Doctor right in front of him, incredulous and now with a pair of glasses perched on his nose. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the addition; the Doctor didn't need glasses… not from what he had deduced already.

"Seriously!" the Doctor squawked, throwing his hands in the air as his voice raised half and octave, "where'd you find that? I wouldn't have dropped it…"

"Pocket," was Sherlock's one-worded reply.

"What?"

Sherlock breathed out of his nose in a huff. Was the man being purposely obtuse? "It was in your pocket. Obviously."

The Doctor worked his jaw, opening and closing his mouth, eyes wide. "That's impossible—you can't just _pick-pocket _ me—"

"Just because you're an alien does not exempt you from crime," Sherlock smirked. He pressed his thumb to the clasp of the watch, and it hummed with anticipation under his touch. He couldn't believe he hadn't yet opened the watch… usually he just stared at it. Why hadn't he thought of it before? Clearly, if he was to get a full observation of the object, he should have seen what was inside.

With a stabilizing breath, Sherlock flipped the fob watch open. Immediately, he was mesmerized by the golden particles swaying in flux with the visible mechanisms, the sharp gears cut like the drawn rays of a sun twitching without sound behind the unmoving hands, which had stopped in an acute angle between where the eight and nine should be. The bright mist residing within the watch swirled into the air before Sherlock's face and faded away, leaving behind nothing of consequence. There wasn't an odor, nor was there a distinct taste, but there was a faint mumbling at the back of Sherlock's head. He tried to focus on what was being said, but the more he tried to determine the words, the more distant they became. Sherlock was beginning to warm with frustration until a familiar voice rang loud and clear, as if it had been spoken right in Sherlock's ear:

_Close the watch, Sherlock. It's not yet time for me to appear._

Stunned, Sherlock did as the voice asked without question. The watch snapped closed and he held it in the palm of his hand for one last examination before putting it away.

"It's very rude, you know, opening another bloke's fob watch," the Doctor said suddenly, and Sherlock started. He had forgotten his tagalong, and he turned his head to look properly at the Doctor, whose face was pale and whose eyes glittered with excitement.

"It knew my name," Sherlock said, his voice all but astonished.

The Doctor tilted his head slightly to the side, a small grin picking at the edges of his mouth. "Of course it did. It's been living with you for nearly a year… it would be a shame if it didn't pick up on _some _things."

A suspicion nagging at the fore-front of Sherlock's thoughts, and he linked his fingers onto the Doctor's sleeve as he passed, gaining his immediate attention. "You heard it speak, too."

The Doctor grinned, the rest of his features finally matching the glint in his eyes. "Oh, yeah. Better than you, I expect. It's a good thing you opened that watch—I know exactly where John is."

"John?"

"It's who we're here to save, isn't it?" the Doctor asked, grinning. It took Sherlock a moment to realize the Doctor was teasing him, and he wasn't sure he appreciated the light-hearted take the extraterrestrial had on the situation.

Besides, not everything added up. "Yes, but…"

The Doctor turned from their only way out of the storage room, spinning on the soundless rubber heels of his bright converse (the only items in the room that didn't change its tint in the flashing lights), and he was still grinning like the cat who caught the canary. With a few bounding steps, the Doctor was in front of the detective, grabbing his shoulders in a cast iron grip (thin, nimble fingers, calloused and working hands, could easily turn to kill) and said, "You heard what the watch said, but you must have observed it was using John's voice?" He laughed to himself and spun away as he released Sherlock's shoulders. He bolted to the door, his sonic screwdriver in hand, exclaiming, "Don't you see? This proves John is a Time Lord! This is brilliant! This is _fantastic!_" The odd, wavering beam of sound that originated from the tool was barely perceptible over the muffled sirens, and the door clicked open in the Doctor's hands. Over his shoulder, he called, "Allons-y!"

Sherlock only had a few seconds to blink to himself before he took off after the Doctor, mind still whirring, into the clash of white and sound.

Xx-{X}-xX

At first, running with John was a little difficult, as the short man practically snarled when Jack attempted to pick him up and throw him over his shoulder. Because John had been strapped to the gurney for a long while, his limbs weren't working correctly, and John staggered from wall to wall, his feet stumbling over the slick flooring, obviously disoriented from the flashing lights and the incredible noise that threatened to deafen them both. Though John's left shoulder tensed by his ear and every other step was a falter as his weight shifted unevenly with his limp, the man made considerable progress. The alarms were distracting and the lights left them in blips of complete darkness, but they sped through the never-ending hallway as if the lights were in the correct functioning order.

Jack had to slow his pace so John could keep up, but now that fear had started to mingle with his original confidence, he decided the blogger's pride could take a slight blow. He rounded the area in front of the stumbling army doctor and looped one arm behind the man's back… only to have his attempt evaded by a boneless slip of muscle and experience.

"Stop it," John growled over the sirens, "I'm doing fine."

Jack glared; the stubbornness of the man was starting to get ridiculous. "You're too _slow!" _Jack shouted, lengthening the last word for emphasis. Surely John Watson knew an exigent man when he saw one. "It's like you're in a one-legged race, John, and you're losing."

John might have retorted, but it was lost in the translation of urgency and shock when Jack rounded the corner and nearly bowled over a large man with a face marked with spots and features even Jack couldn't greet. He wore black slacks and a white shirt that seemed a little too small; the seams and buttons barely clung to the fabric. His rolls were tucked into his belt, though his pants were lifted at a most unflattering height in order to contain them all. Jack then noticed the tazer connected to a loop on his belt, the flashlight on the corresponding side, and the walkie-talkie on his shoulder.

Security Guard.

"Shit," John said.

"Hey!" the security guard shouted, his tazer now in hand. It seemed much more threatening when it was pointed in their direction.

A thrill struggled in Jack's abdomen as his mind caught up with the danger they were both in—no doubt the security guard recognized Jack's face… he was quite the notorious enemy of this Institute (and a handsome one, at that)—and without a second thought Jack grabbed the nearest bit of John Watson he could find (by the feel of the hard lines and how they pushed together, Jack deterred it was the man's wrist) and _ran._ Jack didn't think he had ever run so quickly in his life, and his shoulder wrenched painfully in the socket as he dragged John behind him. The man wasn't balanced, and there was a tense moment when John's weight shifted precariously, his head over his toes as he tried to keep up with Jack's admittedly grueling pace, and Jack allowed himself a deeper exhale when the odd pressure on his arm disappeared.

Jack focused on breathing, his lungs on fire as they fought with his mind—his legs muscles tightened with every step and his shoulders and face warmed with exercise, begging with him to stop, but they were nearly there… they were so close…

He knew they must have been nearing the front lobby, as the sirens had started to quiet, as if he and John were putting a great distance between them. The absence of the shrieking alarms left a ringing in Jack's ears, but he could now hear every breath he took and his heart throbbing—he could feel it in his throat.

Before they could get much farther, John stopped suddenly, effectively releasing his wrist from Jack's bone-crushing grasp (something Jack felt a bit guilty about, as the man was already bruised enough, but to his defense, he had done it in a panicked haste) as he veered off to the right, his head tilted to the side, his eyes closed as if to savor the beauty of a song.

"_What are you doing?"_ Jack demanded, incensed and shaking with the onslaught on adrenaline. His fringe swung into his peripheral vision, tangling with his eyelashes and stringy with sweat. They were so close…

"Saving our lives,_ sir_," John spat, glowering at Jack. "Provided we're attempting to escape, I wouldn't take the current route you're headed for. Though your sonic blaster would do us good with artificial resistance, Captain, it would do nothing to defend ourselves against the police waiting for us outside. I recommend we head to the basement of this building."

Jack paused, straightened so he balanced on the balls of his feet, and turned, angling himself so he could get a better look at the man. There was something different about John Watson, something that hadn't been there when Jack had released John from his restraints. He held himself differently: he still pulled himself to his full height, but the pain seemed to be less (though he winced nearly imperceptibly every other second, so perhaps he was containing it better), and in ways that John had seemed like an old man, he was no longer weary, but full of a youth that aspired to authority. His movements seemed more graceful, and his weight was evenly balanced on both feet.

Jack didn't know what kind of game John was playing, but they didn't have the time to dawdle. Any moment, the hefty security guard with the handheld electric chair could find their current position (and it wouldn't be hard to figure out: they were basically headed out through the front door). Or, if what John suggested was true, then the police could get tired of waiting for them to come out and investigate themselves.

"John, are you sure…?" Jack started, but a light chuckle interrupted him.

"That is not my name," he said with a smile. "And yes. Let's go, shall we?"

Jack eyed John warily from the corner of his eye, but merely gestured for the army doctor to lead the way. They moved swiftly into the right, which held another shining corridor, but they had barely make two steps more when John slowed to a stop, placing a hand on the wall as if he had instantaneously gained twenty pound weights on his shoulders, and put his head in his free hand, which shook with a tremor.

Jack slowed to a stop beside John, waiting for him to catch his breath, valiantly resisting the urge not to hold his nose with two fingers—though it was hardly the man's fault, John smelled like a raw combination of sweat and medication (his body must be ridding itself of the chemicals the Torchwood scientists must have injected into his system). John breathed heavily and he scrubbed at his forehead, the palm of his hand coming away glossy with grease.

"You alright?" Jack asked, pulling on John's elbow and gently yanking him away from the wall. They stumbled together past the locked conference rooms and work halls, passed the misleading corridors that would spell a dead end, hindering their journey furthermore.

"Yeah," John grumbled, rubbing at his temple once more. "Just got a bloody headache, is all."

This information was unsurprising. Jack would bet his broken vortex manipulator that John had not gotten much sustenance during his stay at Torchwood London, and some of those abrasions on his arms and torso were slightly pink, showing the beginnings of infection.

When John showed aptitude for standing on his own once more, Jack released his hold on his elbow and said, "Well, lead the way."

John furrowed his brow in confusion. "What? You can't be serious. I haven't a clue where I am."

_What the hell is going on? What's your game, John?_ Thoughts such as these and more swelled to the forefront of Jack's brain, but he only eyed John carefully and said, "never mind. We've got to go to the basement."

"Basement?" John chuckled, but followed Jack anyway, favoring his left leg. They started again in a jog, and though John winced and limped, he was able to keep up easily, as if running while heavily injured was an everyday occurrence for John (although, now that Jack thought about it, John probably _did_ run on injuries, having been in the army). "I thought you wanted to get out of here."

"Front door's blocked," Jack said, unsure whether he was lying or not. He didn't want to test John's theory that the police were waiting for them. Instead, he pulled up some long-buried building blueprints to the forefront of his mind: "There's a lower-level garage that leads to the alley. If that doesn't work, we can always try a window."

John grinned. "Or we could jump to another rooftop. Scary as hell, but it's better than being cornered."

Jack screwed up his face trying to imagine what John was doing to have to resort to roof-hopping, then laughed when he gave up the impossible task. Perhaps it was better not to know, and when John's chuckle joined his, he knew his first instinct was right. And though they were laughing now, Jack kept a careful eye on the man. Perhaps he was not what he first seemed.


	7. Miracle Work 6

**Uh... hi, again. It's... um... nice to see you again (ducks and hides behind battlements waving white flag).**

**I'm so sorry, I don't even have words on where to begin. I honestly didn't mean to take this big of a hiatus, but life happened, and stuff. Really, you all don't need to know, or would you be interested, but the truth is, I was busy and tired and this chapter was very frustrating. Do you know how hard it is to write something with four characters who have very strong personalities? It's very hard. They all fight for attention, and it's ridiculous.**

**Also, I'm a bit tired of John Whump at the moment, but I managed. There's nothing I love more than a bit of John Whump, but I don't really feel it at the moment. And what's more... THERE'S MORE TO COME! Will my suffering never cease? (Actually, John is the one suffering, and for once, I feel so sorry).**

**On a happier note, I watched all five seasons of Merlin (you can blame Netflix for the Hiatus, too), and it's brilliant. Seriously, I love that show as much as I love Sherlock (and no, it has nothing to do with Colin Morgan's cheekbones, though that is a plus), and I think you all should watch it. I went into that show thinking, "Oh, I won't like this," because I'm not interested in the Dark Ages, but ten minutes into the first episode, I fell in love. So... Yeah.**

**Before I drown in all this fangirly happiness (Because MERLIN), here is the next chapter. I spent all week writing it, so enjoy! It's a long one.**

* * *

7

Running had always been a favorite pastime of the Doctor's.

Well, maybe not always, for all those centuries ago, he may have considered running to be something saved for athletes and the other nutters who actually _liked_ the feeling of their bodies being on fire and their lungs being torn from their chests. Strangely enough, it had grown on him. Instead of being a tortuous method for quicker travel—something he employed very well when at the tender age of eight he was forced to look into the Time Vortex—running held the promise of adventure, of something in history happening _at that very moment_, and the only way for the Doctor to have enjoyed it to its fullest was to be on his toes, making sure nothing skewed from the Timeline engraved in his mind (and, at one time, in the mind of all Time Lords, but they were all dead now and it was up to the Doctor to keep the peace. He wouldn't have been able to live with himself if he let the universe fall apart when he could have done something to save it).

Because of this, because history was in the making _right now_ (what else could it be, with the legendary Sherlock Holmes at his side?), the Doctor couldn't help but laugh, a great smile splitting his cheeks as he ran. _This_ moment in time was perhaps unprecedented, from the Doctor's viewpoint, at least, for he hadn't expected _the_ John Watson to actually have been a hidden Time Lord (despite fixed points being unmovable, the details were always in flux). In the Doctor's eyes, _this_ moment was akin to having cake and eating it too; he got to meet Sherlock Holmes, the man with the brains to rival his own, _and _he found out that a part of his race had survived. The Face of Boe was right: he was _not_ alone, and with the arrival of the Master (which really could have been missed, if the Doctor was telling the truth . . . if anyone needed to be put to rest, it was his old childhood friend whose mind had chipped and frayed to the point of no return), and now John Watson, the Doctor began to think that maybe _more_ Time Lords have escaped extinction, and were just hidden among the stars.

His expression must have been startling to the passersby, unnervingly mad as the smile threatened to conquer his entire face; Sherlock Holmes threw him odd glances out of the corner of his eye, perhaps wondering whether or not the Doctor was a huon particle short of sane. They passed through the troubling atmosphere, their light source a bit infuriating in the way it would taint everything around them red before submerging them into complete darkness and back again. The Doctor trusted the hallways to be unoriginally straight—as they usually were on this technologically stunted, but growing planet—for once the flash of red dimmed, they were unable to see anything in front of them. He relied on his other senses and his photographic memory to get them around corners and through doors, for otherwise he would have led Sherlock headlong into a wall. The Doctor was surprised it hadn't happened already.

Skidding on one foot as he made a particularly violent turn to his right, the Doctor silently reassured himself of the memories relived by the opening of the fob watch that they were going the right way; because the Doctor was multitasking in his mind (counting his steps, keeping track of time, counting the number of rooms he passed automatically, reviewing the Timeline of Earth and its fixed points, mentally rereading the adventures penned by John Watson in his moments of grief to see if there were any clues given to his true heritage, wistfully reminded of Martha Jones as they passed something that resembled a doctor's office and of Rose when he couldn't share his excitement of this important man with her, wondering what that girl of pink and yellow could be doing now, consorting vaguely with his TARDIS, who was telling him to hurry up and return, all to be interrupted for a quick moment when he stubbed his toe on a partly open door—_ow! That hurt!_), he nearly passed the hallway that would lead them along a quicker route to John's coordinates.

When Sherlock had opened the fob watch (another thing the Doctor would have to analyze when they were safe and bored), faint traces of huon particles had been released, bouncing to their owner and back. The Doctor had nearly been floored by the gentle caress at the back of his thoughts, soothing his mind in a way he hadn't felt in years: it was a miniscule presence, almost an echo of what had been before, pressing at the back of his head, singing to him in that solemn way he had approximately forgotten in its absence. As if recognizing his signature as similar to the owner's, it invaded him, taking over his thoughts as a world long gone flashed before his eyes; a world of blood red skies and of multiple suns eclipsing the other, of a great pyramidal building with transparent floors and windows and doors, of a bright moon that overshadowed the indigo plains and the white-tipped mountains off in the distance. It was a world most beautiful, and before Sherlock could see, the Doctor swiped a lone tear from his face—he had not felt it when it had fallen, cool and wet, but when the images were gone it itched, tickling the fibers and fine, near invisible hairs that protected his cheeks. It was a world the Doctor could only access through his dreams, and just like waking up, the memories left him breathless and aching, his stomach an empty pit.

Odd fragments of sentences and words had accompanied the loss of the painting of Gallifrey, incomprehensible due to the way voices and accents overlapped. If he were not familiar with the way fob watches confused memories, mixing them up in order to keep them fresh, the loud confusion of voices would have driven the Doctor mad. Some of the voices were familiar, others were not, but it was the watch's way of speaking to him, to letting the Doctor know that he and the watch's owner were the same. Obviously Sherlock could not hear them, but there was an intense concentration on his face as if he knew they were there and he was trying to access them (_bad_ idea, Mr. Holmes).

Just as the Doctor was about to focus on the mess of noise around him, to try and separate one voice from another, there was a tug about the Doctor's naval, and information, clear and precise in comparison to the random spells of disjointed thoughts and memories, welled up within him. Excitement and hope swelled within him as he recognized coordinates rounding to exact numbers in his head, complete with arrival time, day, and year. All else dropped in importance, and the Doctor soon found himself giddy.

He had been ready to bolt for the door (the coordinates did not match that of the laboratory he had found John Watson in earlier, and it made it seem like John Watson had escaped their clutches, despite his refusal to leave with the Doctor. Distantly, the Doctor wondered what made John change his mind . . . why had John felt the need to break free? Had he been taken? Was he being chased?), but he was stopped by the sound of John's voice, ringing true as a bell through the gloom. The Doctor had stopped, intrigued, and watched the hard face of the cold, impassive man change into childlike astonishment as his friend's voice advised him to keep the watch hidden.

The echoes of John's voice replayed in his mind even after the Doctor returned to the present and aimed his sonic screwdriver at the ceiling. His trusty tool whined, automatically dulling the alarms to a persistent throb rather than the ear-shattering ache it had been. He rounded another corner, his breath starting to huff in his ringing ears, when Sherlock spoke up again.

"Couldn't you use that thing to turn on the lights?" Sherlock asked in one breath, not sounding at all as if he were running for his life.

It wasn't an unreasonable question, the Doctor thought, especially since the flashing lights made it a tad difficult to see where they were going. However, the Doctor had a reason for everything he did. "Where's the fun in that?" he asked in return, genuinely curious.

Sherlock's uncanny, piercing stare was upon him once more, but there was something about this glance that was less hard and more . . . amused. Despite the more logical option, the Doctor ignored it in favor of the challenge the flashing lights provided; he might as well have fun on this rescue mission, entertain himself while he was in the most unsavory of places . . . as long as it didn't interfere with his objective. Besides, should the lights be corrected, he would have to concede to humanity's current lows. The Doctor didn't want to acknowledge the horrid choices the inhabitants of his favorite planet continued time and time again to make; in his inherent tendency to see the good in people, he often missed the signs that something might not be quite right until it was almost too late (See example: The Master).

He had spoken too soon. The Doctor knew it was only a matter of time before the temporary blindness the current lighting left him in would result in misfortune; the only warning he had for the impending crash was a pounding at the base of his skull. The throbbing was not unlike that felt at a nightclub where music was loud enough to be sensed blocks away—if loud music caused wariness that made the Doctor want to look over his shoulder in paranoia. He had crashed into something solid (though thankfully not as solid as a wall) and fell to his rear, his hip bones aching at his harsh landing and his arms straining from where they had caught the floor before his head had the chance.

The next thing the Doctor registered was a sharp, searing pain in his hand and shoulder that caused him to yelp, even if the pain was short-lived. It appeared Sherlock had not overseen the inevitable encounter and had tripped over the Doctor's fallen form, his expensive shoe leaving a stamp of ridges and ripped skin on the back of his hand, crushing the Doctor's fingers as he fell forward, diving into the assailant. Sherlock's momentum nearly wrenched the Doctor's shoulder from his socket as the Time Lord was knocked the opposite way of his hand, which was pinned down by Sherlock's foot. The next few moments were an incomprehensible tangle of limbs and groans, in which Sherlock's towering form was indiscernible from, and there was a silence that was only broken by swearing, pained panting, and the thumping of the Doctor's hearts in his eardrums. Forcing himself to take a few deep breaths, the Doctor calmed himself and assessed the damage.

It was difficult to do so, given they looked more like Jackie Tyler's Christmas pudding—black and lumpy, complete with a few questionable chunks—than a pile of crumpled bodies. He didn't know how many people were there with him and Sherlock, and he hoped that none of them were those who could cause them some major trouble. Therefore, he wasn't prepared to hear a familiar voice call out his name in a twentieth-century American accent, amused and incredulous: "Doctor?"

Startled, the Doctor turned to see the grinning visage of an old friend. The man was still handsome, his blue eyes glinting through the familiar sense of age in a similar manner that reminded the Doctor about what he saw every time he was unfortunate enough to stumble upon a mirror. The Doctor was pleased to see Jack Harkness still had his old coat, which was indecently open (Jack obviously didn't notice or care) to display a white T-shirt, rumpled and partially untucked beneath his suspenders. A deep wrinkle in his shirt led the Doctor's eyes to something that glinted silver at his hip, and the Doctor noted with some annoyance that his old friend had somehow managed to repair his sonic blaster (dumb, wishful, fifty-first century technology. Though there was a banana field there in the future, it was an event that had yet to come to pass; unfortunately, the gun factory would be built for the Doctor to destroy in the future).

A sense of _wrongness_ thudded at the back of his head, vibrating from the nape of his neck and through his sinuses with the urge to _get away_, but the Doctor grinned past it in favor of greeting Jack, who truly was one of his greatest friends. It tickled like an itch that couldn't be scratched, just beneath his skin. It pulled at his senses, like a child tugging on the hem of his sleeve to catch his attention, and though all he wanted to do was to shove the attention-seeking child away in annoyance, he ignored it. The Doctor had gotten used to the wrong, fixed-point presence he found in his friend before, and he could do again.

Despite his uneasiness in what Jack had become, the Doctor had to admit it was good to see an old companion again . . . a friendly face when another had abandoned him to this never-ending life of loneliness.

(Besides, the TARDIS had already taken him to the furthest point in the universe he could travel in order to shake Jack Harkness away, and if that hadn't shaken the man's faith and loyalty in him, then he supposed nothing would. Perhaps it would do him good to travel with Jack a few times . . . he hadn't managed to kill Jack yet . . . though he supposed what had happened instead wasn't any better. He tried not to picture what would happen to Jack in a few million years and failed.)

"Hello," the Doctor grinned, rubbing his aching hand ruefully. He was secretly pleased at how Jack's grin widened at the Doctor's words (and he would never admit how much), and was about to inquire after what Jack had been doing in the past couple of days (perhaps six months for Jack) when his thought process was effectively broken by an indignant yelp.

"_Sherlock!"_ Ah, the shout had belonged to John Watson, and what a shout it was. It echoed off the walls in the same way the sirens had done, and the Doctor was duly impressed. "Are you telling me you broke into a secret government building _just to hand me that bloody watch?"_

The Doctor and Jack simultaneously turned to see John and Sherlock on the ground, the former sitting up, grimacing and bruised, one palm tucked under his elbow to ease the pressure gravity would have on his injured shoulder, the latter kneeling on both knees, face unreadable, holding a round case of glittering silver in a gloved, outstretched hand. John, whose kind face was lined and colored with various lopsided circles of purple and a sickly yellow-green, had a lurched, belligerent posture intended to intimidate his much larger friend, who pale eyes glinted with amusement and a hint of confusion. Sherlock's face, though still pale, held something mischievous about the quirk of his lips and the tilt of his head that suggested the shock of the day's earlier events had worn off . . . or momentarily shoved aside and forgotten.

"John, do use your head," Sherlock said, his voice low. His expression was lighter than it had been, no longer the dark, brooding hint along the hard, statue-like expressions the Doctor had grown used to in the company of the young man. Actually, the Doctor didn't believe the man capable of anything lighter than a righteous smirk or an amused raising of an eyebrow, and in comparison to what he had seen before, Sherlock Holmes was positively _glowing_ in the company of his newly found friend. Still, it was difficult to tell whether or not the world's only Consulting Detective was teasing or reprimanding. "We're here to save you."

John stared for a moment, then said, quite seriously, "Do you even remember what 'Vatican Cameos' was created for?"

_No, _the Doctor thought, but he was saved from having to ask when Sherlock spoke up.

"Yes," he said, and the rest was spoken so quickly the Doctor believed the man got oxygen from another reciprocal other than his mouth, "It is a failsafe code phrase created for the explicit use while in the midst of dangerous situations, especially when it could result in injury or death of one of us. However, it was more likely created because you couldn't stand to be the on the receiving end of my right hook, when it was clearly intended for the criminal, who had more sense to duck than you."

John blinked, expressionless. The Doctor suspected in his current state, John wouldn't have been able to understand half of what Sherlock had said due to the extreme rapidity of his speech. There was a moment of silence before he said, "Well, that's good and all—brilliant, in fact—but _I _used the phrase so you wouldn't come after me."

Sherlock looked as if someone had insulted his scarf. "You've been missing for four days." He said this as if it settled the matter.

"Really?" John's eyes widened. "That short, was it? I thought it'd been longer."

"Doctor," Jack murmured from beside him, a tremulous break vibrating ever so lightly on his tongue. The two men, short and tall, light and dark, injured and whole, exchanged banter as if they were sitting at home, drinking tea in front of the tele instead of in a potentially perilous situation in which they should have been running for their lives. It was a bit disconcerting to experience, and the Doctor and Jack watched in synchronized awe.

"Yeah?" The Doctor's response was an automatic reflex as he watched Sherlock Holmes hold out his hand, carefully pulling John Watson to his feet. There was the smallest of movements in which Sherlock's piercing glare darted over every scratch and bruise on what was visible of John's compact body before his face went angular with shadows, visibly cataloguing the injuries while his lips tightened at the spattering or trail of rust dried blood.

Sherlock still held the watch in front of John's nose. "You're supposed to open it," Sherlock said within the same breath of his previous statement, his tone careless and offhand. The Doctor marveled at how Sherlock had managed such a feat of speech without the lung reserves of a Judoon. The tone had sounded a bit off with the set of his face, which was pointed as an arrow as he stared with an odd intensity at John, pale eyes unwavering and expression unchanging in the waves of black and red the silent alarms provided.

John blinked again. "Do you really think this is the best time?"

"Is that . . . ?" Jack continued weakly. In a random chance of good luck, neither Sherlock nor John had heard them

The Doctor nodded, grinning. He knew the feeling. "Yeah."

There was a grunting, choking sound as Jack gasped for air, almost like he had transported to a planet in which the air did not contain enough oxygen and was forced to run in a celebratory marathon, or as if he had fallen out of the TARDIS as they were passing over the Milky Way. When the Doctor finally turned to face his friend (watching the legendary Earthlings was a too fascinating study to pass by), he found Jack's face had reddened with lack of air and his blue eyes enlarged. His hand was on his chest as he coughed into his other fist, his mouth moving in an attempt to form words, but utterly failing when none would come forth, foiled at the last moment when a quick, wheezing breath forced its way through his teeth instead. Jack looked to the Doctor, eyes wide, still unable to speak.

"I know," the Doctor said, fighting back a large smile. The expression was evident in his voice, however, and the Doctor knew he had failed at that menial task. It was no use hiding his excitement, though it would probably be the wiser, given they were in the presence of one of the greatest minds in the history of the universe. Should he or Jack give anything away about their legacy, they might change the course of more than planet Earth; they may alter the history of the universe. Though it might have not been his place, the Doctor felt proud that Earth—little, tottering, barely off its hind-quarters, primitive Earth—had produced something as legendary and brilliant as Sherlock Holmes.

(A frightening prospect, the Doctor knew, and a definitely risky one, if he were to take these two men on a little adventure . . . but there was no possible way he would give up a chance like this! He could very well leave it alone, but then Sherlock Holmes would pursue him and the mystery he provided like a bloodhound on the scent. And he couldn't leave John Watson, proven Time Lord, to fend for himself—especially when the man was so young.)

After a particularly nasty, hacking cough, Jack inhaled noisily and cleared his throat. Schooling his expression into one of indifference, he stretched out the cricks in his neck with a small adjustment of the position of his handsome head. "Do you think he'd sign my chest?"

"What are you two talking about?" John croaked, sounding as if his vocal chords had been taken out and scrubbed with steel wool. He must have noticed the hardened granite of Sherlock's pale face, for John hastily cleared his throat in an obvious attempt to dislodge whatever blocked his speech. His Adam's apple bobbed once, and the racket that came from the motion was not unlike rocks grating against one another. "Why are you still on the floor?"

The Doctor and Jack looked at each other, momentarily speechless. The Doctor's head felt light as a helium balloon, yet it was heavy as if the inside of his cranium had been lined with lead. He still shouldn't have been feeling like this, faint with awe in the shadow of his heroes, but he had yet to get used to the idea that he had met _the_ Sherlock Holmes; the Doctor had done many fantastic, unbelievable things and met so many brilliant people, but the feeling had always been the same, and he suspected it always would be. Feeble (though he suspected Jack felt it more than he . . . the Doctor had at least an hour to get used to the idea), the Doctor shook his head and waved off John's inquiry.

"Nah, I'm fine," the Doctor squeaked, and, thoroughly embarrassed, the Doctor cleared his throat, returning his voice to something that resembled his normal tones, "Absolutely, exceptionally fine. We both are fine. What an odd word: fine," the Doctor continued, his head tilted to the side as he considered this concept, "It just . . . lingers on the tongue—fine, fine, fine—oh! That's new! It buzzes if you say it enough. Fine. Fine! _Fine. _Fine."

"Doctor," Jack interrupted in a mutter. The man probably would have elbowed him if they weren't so tangled on the floor.

"_Fine_," the Doctor grumbled, pushing his heated palms to the chilled, linoleum flooring as he folded his legs beneath his chest. Grunting steadily, the Doctor rose to his full height and brushed the filth of the Torchwood Institute from his suit jacket, hissing as his hand protested at the movement of his metacarpals. It _smarted_, and as it throbbed, the Doctor looked down at the hand he was currently shaking out by his side and could make out the red flush marking lines and indents into his flesh. Sherlock was heavier than he first looked—the man was almost painfully thin, even if his shirt buttons looked as if they were straining themselves just to hold the fabric over his chest. Shaking his head, the Doctor grinned, looking over at his new companions (oh, he had _new companions_—this was very exciting), "Shall we get going then?"

Sherlock, whose hands were open in a peaceful offering, the shining fob watch resting innocently and ignored on his palm, nodded and stood quietly from his stoop to show John what he held, his great coat swishing about his ankles in his haste. He towered over John without great effort, seeming to shield the smaller man like a guardian angel; Sherlock was close enough for John's fingers to brush the fabric of his coat as he moved, but they did not touch. Neither of them seemed to notice. With a flip of his long fingers, Sherlock hid the fob watch in his hand and slipped it into his pocket.

The Doctor was about to lead his new friends away when Jack called his name, hesitant and unsure, "Uh . . . Doctor?"

"What?" the Doctor asked, exasperated and a bit surprised. When he turned to face his friend, he noticed Jack's eyes were focused on something over his shoulder. The Doctor knew that look: it was a look many of his companions had worn before, usually when the Doctor was facing the other way and had no idea of what could be behind him. Apprehensive, the Doctor froze.

"We should go." Jack sounded urgent, and before the Doctor could complain about how that was what he had been trying to do, Jack placed both hands on the Doctor's thin shoulders and turned him to face the other way, his grip tightening to hold the Doctor in place.

The apprehension from earlier changed to dread as it slipped to his stomach, his hearts beating madly in his chest, as he was witness to a dozen figures, all clad in black jumpsuits and padded armor, rounding the corner to where the Doctor and his new companions stood. Their helmets shined blood red in the gasping lights, hiding their identities as they moved as one unit, their feet in perfect rhythm, their right pointer fingers curled in preparation around the trigger of their admittedly large (and dangerous-looking) guns. One of them shouted incoherently at the sight of the Doctor (or, perhaps at their prisoner, whom they probably recognized more than the rest of them), and their pace sped up, the soles of their boots trampling the ground in a way that broke their practiced pattern as one entity. Their disorder, however, didn't do anything to calm his nerves, for it allowed them to race more quickly to the spot where the Doctor stood, dumbfounded, with Jack's hands still gripping his shoulders with enough strength to bruise and Sherlock holding an exhausted John up by the waist.

"Like now," Jack urged.

"All right, then," the Doctor agreed, and darted to the nearest hallway, effectively ripping his shoulders from Jack's grip.

Jack cursed loudly, but after a moment his footsteps followed the Doctor's own, and the Doctor didn't dare turn down a new corridor until he was certain Sherlock and John had moved as well. Closed doors and plastered notices blurred together with the whiteness of the walls, and the Doctor's temples ached as the red alert light flashed into existence before leaving them in darkness. He hadn't been lying when he told Sherlock he found the lights fun (actually, he found them fairly hilarious, but that was beside the point that he wanted them on), but now they were an annoyance the Doctor could have gotten rid of—that he _should_ have gotten rid of—before they became a major problem.

His hearts thudded against his ribcage in a staccato rhythm that would throb in his ears and heat his face should he stop, but he had run quicker than this in more arduous situations (and for much longer), so the Doctor merely took a sharp right turn instead of giving into his tiredness. The Doctor's breath was hot in his mouth and his lungs were aflame, but he kept his pace, mentally kicking himself for having done nothing in the past week since Martha had left; his inactivity had left him vulnerable to the rages of exercise (right embarrassing, that). His long beige coat whipped around him, cape-like, snagging on the sharp line of his torso, but the fabric dispelled and slid down his waist as he continued to run.

Vaguely, the Doctor was surprised his legs hadn't become tangled in the wavering mess of his clothing choices, but the thought disappeared as quickly as it had come in his panic to _get away._ Jack's breathing was harsh in the Doctor's left ear (he caught up quickly, the Doctor noted), and the uneven stumbling of Sherlock and John was not far behind. Deep shouts, authoritative and commanding, followed their progress, and the Doctor wasn't entirely positive they would be able to outrun them . . . not with John as injured as he was.

"We're not going to make it," Jack breathed, a sound hissed through his teeth as he struggled to speak while running. It was as if Jack had read his thoughts, but he didn't need to know the Doctor felt the same.

It was only a few seconds after Jack made that reasonable statement when the Doctor took a final turn to find their savior in the form of an elevator: its chrome, rectangular design seemed to glow, as if recognizing its importance in this time in history.

(And, unbelievably, this particular lift held a huge importance in their escape, for who knew what disaster could have befallen the humans had they taken the Doctor—a man who could regenerate to escape death—and Jack Harkness—a man who could not die—into possession. So, yes, this elevator was _very _important, for it could save the natural progression of the universe just by being there, and the Doctor was glad the elevator realized this.)

The Doctor would have cried in gratitude if he were not breathless and running for his life, and he shouted to Jack, smug and happy, "Yes we are!" before pulling out his _wonderful_ sonic screwdriver (yet another magnificent and inanimate object with an important role in the saving of the universe), pushed against the rough ridges of the lever to activate his tool, and aimed it toward the closed doors that flickered in and out of existence with the flashing alarm lights. In the Doctor's opinion, there wasn't a more beautiful sound than the mechanical whirring wavering before him, for its sonic sound waves were enough to aid the elevator into doing what he commanded; in the quickest of moments the chrome doors sprung open, inviting the four of them into the safety net of her enclosed room. The yellowish light inside it was a constant in a world of red and black, giving them something to run towards, to escape the uncertainty that engulfed their current situation.

"Quickly! Everyone inside!" the Doctor commanded, allowing Jack, who was at his heels, to enter the elevator before him. The Doctor cast his palms out in front of him to catch his momentum on the wall, and he winced as his body slammed solidly into it. His pelvis had been painfully stopped by a handrail that encircled the entire space.

When the Doctor flipped himself around, he was satisfied to see Sherlock and John stagger in, but panicked when the glint of a helmet visor made itself visible along the back wall of the corridor they had recently escaped. The thin body attached to the helmet followed at a speed that would rival the Doctor's (even if he was in better shape), and ignoring the shouting coming from his new companions (mostly Jack, as John was nearly unconscious and Sherlock's face was pinched) the Doctor jumped in front of them and pointed his glowing and whirring screwdriver to the labeled buttons on the side of the elevator's cavity.

Instantly, the doors slammed shut faster than its mechanics would normally allow, muting the shouts and thudding footsteps of the dark brigade that had followed them. A moment later, the elevator dropped, narrowly evading the penetration of bullets that now rang above their heads, stopped by chrome doors and solid walls. The Doctor's stomach jumped into his throat, and Sherlock cushioned his discomfort by an athletic bending of the knees, taking John with him. Jack stumbled behind him, letting out a surprised bellow as he steadied himself on the handrail.

"A little warning next time, Doctor," Jack grunted, a hand clutching his stomach as he stooped slightly into himself. A rebellious lock of dark hair had been released from Jack's usually tidy appearance, and the Torchwood operative attempted to blow it away in between his heaving gasps.

The Doctor found he was breathing a little hard himself, his heartbeats strangled in his neck. The warmth of exercise heated his cheeks and caused his tongue to swell in thirst. He swallowed the build-up of phlegm without much success. Turning to Sherlock, he asked, "Are you alright?"

"Fine," said Sherlock, whose voice deepened with a croak to suggest he swallowed a gasp. The man had even managed to make it sound angry, indignant, as if the Doctor had done the opposite and did not just save their hides. "But John . . ."

The Doctor shifted his gaze to the shorter man. John's eyes were shuttered—not quite unconscious, but not completely awake, either—revealing the whites of his eyes and only a thin half-moon of the blue irises thought the pale lashes. His pulse was visible in his neck; it throbbed irregularly, like a hand pushing against the inside of his skin in an attempt to get out, and a quick inspection of the blonde man's wrists, red and torn with captivity, showed the same. His chest fluttered, twice with an inhale, once with an exhale, and the Doctor did his best to ignore the bruises, lacerations, and the visibility of his ribs as he ghosted his whirring sonic over the man's body. Once the examination was finished, the Doctor flipped open the protection guard covering the small screen the sonic provided, hiding a grimace at his findings.

"What is it?" Sherlock demanded, his features sharp and eyes glittering.

The Doctor internally winced; he must not have hidden his reaction as well as he had thought.

"He'll live," the Doctor said truthfully, standing from his crouch and shaking his screwdriver with a few flicking movements of his wrist. Perhaps he had read it wrong, or the little machine had malfunctioned. It wouldn't have been the first time it failed, though it was rare for his trusty screwdriver to betray him in such a manner.

"I'm still . . . conscious," John uttered, clenching his fists by his sides, ". . . wankers." His eyes were still in that half-sleepy state, but there was a fluttering about the eyelids and the fine muscles controlling them that suggested the man was struggling to stay alert.

"Just throw him over your shoulder, Sherlock," Jack said, not even pretending that he wasn't eavesdropping. "He's bite-sized, so it shouldn't be very hard."

"Carry me and _I'll_ bite _you_," John said, rather lucidly despite the shuddering of his lungs and the bruised shadows that grew more pronounced underneath the soft, yellowish light of the lift. Sherlock's arm had wound itself completely under John's shoulders, a gloved hand splayed over the man's battered chest, somehow avoiding the worst of the injuries. His hand was directly over the man's heart, and the Doctor had an odd suspicion that Sherlock was taking his pulse.

Sherlock, however, narrowed his eyes at Jack, his lips thinned as if insulted. "I don't remember introducing myself," he said quietly, his gaze assessing as his words took a slightly more dangerous undertone.

Jack grinned as if Sherlock had given him a treat. He didn't seem to notice the underlying threat Sherlock had projected. "Captain Jack Harkness," he said cordially, holding out a hand, "pleased to meet your acquaintance."

"Stop it," the Doctor growled with finality, a bit annoyed as he turned to the hidden control panel of the elevator. The lift moved much slower than he had anticipated—they should have arrived in the storage room already, and surely the elevator would bypass the deadlocked walls, having been in a separate section, away from the door—and the Doctor was contemplating whether or not he would speed things along by making enhancements to the design, or get them stuck in between levels.

Jack looked up from his untouched hand, much too innocently. "What? I can't say hello?"

"_You_ can't," the Doctor retorted absently as he crossed his arms, still examining the closed control panel, "not without turning it into a complicated pick-up line." He really should leave it alone; they would be there soon, and he didn't want to take the chance of accidentally creating an explosion that would kill them all (though, on second thought, perhaps sacrificing themselves to destroy this rotten technological empire would be worth it? No . . . No . . . he couldn't _gamble_ the lives of some of the most important men of this universe. Besides, Jack would live to tell the tale). The Doctor hadn't glanced at his friend and instead chose to inspect his sonic screwdriver. It needed a bit of polishing . . . perhaps a bit of wax . . . "Just tell him you're not interested, Sherlock."

Jack chuckled, "Just ignore him. He can't tell a banana from a sonic blaster."

"Can too," the Doctor argued, shaking his screwdriver. What was the matter with this thing? "Banana's yellow."

"The name's Harkness." Jack grinned, showing every one of his teeth. They were pearly and perfectly aligned, and the circular light bulb above them reflected what seemed to be the sun's glare of the gleaming enamel. His lips pulled up in a way that could have only been predatory, and suddenly the Doctor feared for Sherlock's virtue. "But you can call me Jack."

"Jack," the Doctor warned, finally putting his screwdriver away. He would have to examine it later.

"I'm just introducing myself," Jack reasoned, innocent once more.

Because this conversation was pointless (and a tad disturbing, considering how Jack was able to change from pervert to nice guy in a blink of an eye), the Doctor was glad when the elevator dinged to alert their arrival on the lower level. The doors opened, much more slowly than when they had been sonically enhanced to aid in their escape, revealing the darkened storage room he and Sherlock had arrived in earlier that morning. Long rows and columns of metal storage units—miniature garages with slotted doors closed against prying eyes, numbered with faded, white symbols—lined the cement floor in an orderly fashion, lit only by the occasional overhead light, dim and yellowed. Shadows more common that not in this area, the Doctor couldn't calm the unnecessary fear that they were being watched from said darkness. At the other side of the room the Doctor could make out the chrome, deadlocked walls that had separated he and Sherlock from the TARDIS shortly after they had arrived, dashing unthinkingly ahead in haste to save John Watson. Relieved that his sight no longer relied on slow flashing alarms that bathed them in red and black, the Doctor's headache dissipated.

With a wave of his hands, the Doctor ushered his companions out of the elevator and into the partial darkness. Sherlock didn't need to be told twice; he tightened his grip on John Watson and stepped over the threshold, his stride long and quick as his raced to where he probably memorized the TARDIS' location to be. The Doctor didn't need such memorization, for he could feel his ship's presence embracing his consciousness, and it would grow stronger with every step closer he came to it.

When Jack didn't immediately follow Sherlock and John's departure, the Doctor turned to his friend, eyebrows raised. The shock on Jack's face nearly made him crack his serious façade—indeed, the Doctor wanted to clutch his sides and laugh, but now was not the time for such behavior—but the Doctor stood strong, silently questioning why Jack hadn't moved.

"Ice cold," Jack finally said, not looking at the Doctor as he shivered and entered where Sherlock and John had disappeared into the shadows, his blaster pointed to the floor as he held it in both hands, finger curled around the trigger.

The Doctor shook his head once and entered the gloom of the silent storage room, flitting through the angled shadows of each storage unit as if he were a part of them. Quickly, the Doctor caught up to Jack, whose back was pressed against the closed entrance of a garage, blaster once again pointed down. He had been looking around the corner of the unit when the Doctor joined him, as if checking for guards or gunmen. The Doctor wondered if Jack also felt the eyes of an unknown watcher.

"I have no idea where I'm going," Jack admitted unashamedly. "There are literally hundreds of these things down here." Jack sounded irritated, and he lifted a hand in a quick motion to gesture to the units ordered around them, "And for all I know, the TARDIS is parked in one of them."

"It's not," the Doctor reassured him, choosing not to say that sometimes the TARDIS liked to move herself, if the parking breaks weren't on. The Doctor was about eighty-percent sure he had put them on, but this was a statistic he decided was best left unsaid. After looking behind him and seeing nothing but geometric shapes and shadows bathed in barely adequate light, the Doctor said, "This way."

Jack grumbled something rude under his breath, too low for the Doctor to hear, and followed him, raising his gun to every dark corner, to every possible hiding place for an assailant. Though no one had been seen, it did not make the Doctor feel any better. Hands damp with anxiety, the Doctor slunk through the shadows with Jack at his side, keeping his footsteps quiet by striding on the balls of his feet, forcing his weight into the ground rather than rebounding off it. Once the Doctor could see the Glowing haze of the light bulb that sat notoriously at the top of his Police Box, the Doctor smiled through his uneasiness and sprinted the rest of the way to the TARDIS, peace entering his mind and soothing away any misgivings he had during the day. He was finally home.

When the blue box was in sight, its panels gleaming in the haze that seemed to encircle the entire ship, the Doctor quickened his pace, eager to escape this monstrosity of a place. Sherlock and John were there already, the blonde man propped up against the side of the box, just underneath the white sign that declared the instructions for using his not-phone. John seemed to have finally fallen unconscious, and Sherlock paced by his feet, his dark coat whipping around him like a tornado with every pivot.

"It won't open," Sherlock said loudly to the Doctor, stopping in his agitated pacing when he saw the Doctor and Jack not ten yards from them.

"_She_ doesn't belong to you," the Doctor retorted, miffed. The TARDIS wasn't some inanimate object they could use willy-nilly and discard when they were done; she was a live, sentient being, and should be treated as such.

Jack clapped a hand on the Doctor's shoulder from behind him, wearing a grin that didn't quite cover his irritation. "Done yet?" he said, almost dragging the Doctor to the TARDIS doors, "If you haven't noticed, we're on a bit of a tight schedule. Torchwood's personal police force? Possible Time Lord? I don't know about you, but I think John here needs some medical attention."

He gestured to John Watson, who was slumped against the TARDIS, his injuries looking far worse than before in the comforting haze of the blue box. Sherlock jerked back as if slapped, offended at the notion that he had forgotten his friend was unconscious and hurt. His jittering impassivity from his pacing shifted, his eyes narrowing as they considered Jack. Though the Doctor had not known Sherlock Holmes for very long, he recognized the terrifying darting of his piercing eyes as they flicked from one detail to the next, burning with knowledge only he could see, and all of it focused on Jack.

In an effort to stop what promised to be a fight, the Doctor rushed to the doors of his TARDIS, key outstretched as to slip into the slot to unlock his machine, purposely bumping into Sherlock's side as to knock him off course, to focus his anger on him and to momentarily forget Jack's unintentional slight. The door easily clicked open, and the Doctor opened it wide to allow Jack and Sherlock through, the latter with John slung over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, the blonde man's arms loosely hanging by his ears, not long enough to brush the ground. Red dropped to the floor in perfectly round circlets every other step.

The Doctor looked up, surveying the area, and he stared hard where something huge moved in the shadows of the storage unit directly across the TARDIS. The fine hairs on the back of his neck rose in trepidation, and the Doctor shut the door with a snap.

"What is it?" Jack asked from behind him.

The Doctor ignored his question. "Did you take John to the Med Bay?"

Jack rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. "Couldn't find it."

Right. None of the others had a telepathic connection with the TARDIS, so none of the others would have been able to find a needed room without guidance from someone who did. It didn't help that the TARDIS liked to change where her rooms were every once in a while (when the Doctor was younger, there was a time she changed her rooms twice a day, just to irritate his companion. The Doctor hadn't noticed, for walking the TARDIS was instinctive for him).

"For future reference, it's the third hallway, five doors down, on the right," the Doctor said, plucking the information from the TARDIS' hum and pushing past his friend to the familiarity of his control consul, "but for now, we have to leave. Sherlock, put John on the couch over there. I'll take a look at him in a moment."

He didn't wait for a confirmation nod from Sherlock, nor did he wait for Jack to respond to his information; he felt a bit uneasy. Something wasn't right with the Torchwood Institute of London, and the large shape he had seen only solidified his concern; he wasn't naïve enough to shake away the feeling as if it were nothing. Too many horrible things had happened in his past to believe everything would be alright if he ignored it enough. No matter how much he closed his eyes and pretended, the universe would still be there, turning, existing, thriving.

The Doctor shook his shoulders, dropping the thought, and pulled the lever to release them into the Time Vortex. The TARDIS shuddered a few times on its way out of the Earth's atmosphere and the continuous fabric of time, but settled once she entered familiar turf. Every once in a while, the blue box rocked lightly—barely perceptible, like the shifting of weight from one leg to another—but otherwise, the trip was smooth, sailing effortlessly through a one-way current. Jack seemed a bit confused, but that was probably because he had only ever known the TARDIS to struggle. This amused the Doctor, and soon his wariness faded away into a dulled vibration. It was a problem he would have to save for later; he now had a possible Time Lord to fix up, and though his medical training was mainly through reading the most interesting articles about diseases that didn't exactly exist and spotty, he was the most qualified man in the room to treat torture-related injuries.

After all, he was a Doctor.

(Jack wouldn't have appreciated that thought. Rose would have giggled, though.)

If the Doctor was being honest, John didn't look all that well. The blonde man was pale underneath the haze from the TARDIS' engine, his skin taking on a sickly sheen that only served to exploit the bruises of various stages of healing on his face, torso, and arms. His chest shuddered as he breathed, but the involuntary action seemed to take less out of him now that he was resting. Ribs pushed against thin skin with every breath—considerable weight loss in a short amount of time never did the body any good—and the lacerations striking across his body were shallow enough that many of them had already scabbed over. A few had healed into shiny pink lines.

Steeling himself against the compassion that had welled within him, the Doctor slipped out his sonic screwdriver and ghosted it over John's lax form, the blue tip glowing as the sonic emitted its familiar, high-pitched whirring. Once the examination was complete, the Doctor flipped the switch, cutting the noise off mind wave, and studied the information the tool transmitted directly into his brain. He didn't need to look at the screwdriver in order to do it, but it tended to relax his companions when he indulged in this little act; looking busy always helped in calming anxious humans down.

"Will he be alright?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"He's just exhausted," the Doctor explained without looking at the man who stood vigil at the head of John's makeshift sick bed on the couch. The Doctor then lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug, tilting his head to the side in consideration. "For the most part, anyway. They seemed to be testing his physical skills more than blood-letting or . . . questioning."

"What for?"

Still crouched, the Doctor craned his neck to look at Sherlock Holmes, who no longer jittered with anxious and irritated energy, but who was stiff as a statue, unmoving, his hands clasped behind his back and his face holding no expression other than polite inquiry. The change, though very subtle, was enough to shock the Doctor, and he found himself answering Sherlock's questions before he had the good sense to filter his mouth: "Torchwood is a secret government branch dedicated to the study of extraterrestrial life and technology—my fault, actually. Long story short I angered Her Majesty Queen Victoria because I enjoyed myself too much saving her and a few others from a particularly nasty Lupine Wavelength Haemovarioform—basically a werewolf, mind you—and she decided she needed a more serious response team to alien threats . . . and there you have it. I thought Torchwood had been destroyed on my last visit to Earth, but it appears I was wrong. You have Jack to thank for that.

"Well, if we were correct in the assumption that they took John because they believed him to be me," the Doctor continued, his voice catching speed in order to keep up with the rapid thoughts of his brain, "then they would be testing John's physical limits—they don't know much about my kind, and for more than one good reason, the main one being that I'm the only one left," (_Not anymore,_ the Doctor's mind helpfully supplied, but the Doctor quelled his excitement for the time being) "Torchwood seems to be under the impression that I am the cause for all of Earth's turmoil when that is not completely true, as I do my best to save it. All this testing Torchwood and similar space-related agencies around your world is doing, sending up probes and beams and radio waves in an effort to contact outside life, is making the Earth a hotspot for outside interest . . . and not always the good kind. Not everyone who visits looks at humans with the same view I do; when I see human beings such as yourself, I see the potential to be great." Here, the Doctor found himself standing, tapping his screwdriver against his palm as he faced this brilliant man, needing him to understand that he was an important part of the universe, even if he could not tell the Consulting Detective directly. "Many aliens out there, however, see humans as a food source or a free and easily conquered labor force . . . some even have the belief that they can better the lives of humans by enforcing their ways onto you all—similar to the colonization deal you Brits indulged in not too far back—"

"What about John?" Sherlock interrupted. Though his voice was impatient, the curiosity underneath the layer of disinterest was enough to let the Doctor know his outburst wasn't meant to harm.

(Then again, the Doctor _did _have a tendency to ramble—he rambled often, and it is a skill he considers as both a gift and a curse. He could talk endlessly, which could serve as a distraction to stall his enemies or those he tries to stop before they harm anyone else, but it also served to confuse the people he was trying to dumb his thought process down for . . . though he was relieved, for once, that that did not seem to be the case for a Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Really, he was glad the man stopped him before he started to reminisce about the Medusa Cascade.)

The Doctor reeled in the monologue he had memorized in his need to repeat himself to uncertain humans with low self-confidence and an even lower sense of self-importance, realizing Sherlock didn't need it; the man had empowered a great deal of self-importance, even if his great brain had comprehended that humans were only a small population in a universe filled with dangerous predators and older civilizations. And the Doctor couldn't help but smile.

Bitterness soon clung to the edges of his mouth, however, when he recalled Torchwood's treatment of all creatures, not just John Watson.

"The fob watch was proof that John embodied the soul of a Time Lord, even if he appeared human," the Doctor said, his voice growing quiet as the muscles in his face tightened. "Torchwood somehow figured out how the two connected, and took him in. When they could not find a way to see past John's humany body, they worked him harder." The Doctor scowled, anger rushing in his veins, itching underneath his skin, as he gestured to the bruises on the man before them. "When that failed to bring about desired results, they questioned him."

The Doctor looked to the tall, thin man, only to see he had fallen into a contemplative silence, his normally piercing eyes pale and glazed over on thought, seeing a world the Doctor wasn't privy to. Sherlock's stance was visibly unmovable, and the Doctor didn't even try to remove him from John's side as he went to his control center, pressing a few buttons and scrolling his dial in a counterclockwise direction until a tarnished pedestal, creaky from disuse, elevated from the inside of the panel, four evenly paced claws opening up like the petals of a rose, the ridges on the inside of each claw identical and smooth.

The Doctor vaguely admired the new development before placing his sonic screwdriver in the middle of the contraption, fixing it so it would stand upright, before allowing the claws to clamp down on his trusty tool and take it into the heart of the consul, moving so quickly that even the Doctor's eyes couldn't catch it before the hole disappeared into wires and gears and darkness. Immediately, the Doctor's screen floated down from the ceiling, letting out a hiss of grumpy air as it landed directly in front of the Doctor's nose, the light from the screen bleached his features and blithely burning into his eyes.

"I found some clothes for John," Jack's voice called cheerfully, breaking the silence that had fallen between the Doctor and Sherlock as they both lost themselves in the distracting realm of thought. Before the Doctor had the chance to read the Gallifreyan symbols that had popped up on the screen, he turned to face his helpful friend with a small smile hinting on the borderline of his lips. He hadn't even realized Jack had left them.

"Excellent, Jack," the Doctor praised, and Jack beamed, brandishing his find in front of him as he strode confidently from the hallway opposite to where the three others were.

"I wasn't sure I would remember where your wardrobe room was—I've only been there once," Jack said cheerfully, his footsteps stomping and clanking as heavy boots met griddled floor. When he reached John's resting place, he set the pile of clothes—a plain white T-shirt, a pair of jeans, socks, and shoes—on the floor by the couch, then crossed his arms, smirking at the Doctor . . . but not before sizing up Sherlock with an admiring stroke of his eyes (it still didn't provide the desired reaction—or any reaction at all—and there was an annoyed purse to Jack's lips). "You weren't a clown in a past regeneration, were you?"

"No," the Doctor said, puzzled. "Why would you say that?"

Jack scoffed. "There was a tan and red blazer with a celery stalk attached. Cute, but I prefer to wear my vegetables on the inside of my body."

The Doctor cleared his throat and returned to a half-hearted study of his screwdriver's statistics on his screen, his back purposely facing Jack. Everything _seemed_ fine . . . perhaps a bit tired, but nothing wrong . . . "It was a phase."

Jack choked. "You're serious?" He spluttered for a second, unable to find words. "I was kidding! I thought you lost a bad bet or something."

"Everyone expresses themselves in their youth," the Doctor sighed.

"Yeah, with parties and chicks and long hair. I don't even want to know what _you_ were like as a teenager."

_Ran afoul with my elders . . . aided an escaped convict . . . stole a TARDIS . . ._

That made the Doctor smile. "Probably not," he said as he plucked his sonic screwdriver from the petal-like claws that had made a reappearance, trapped in the past along with a world long forgotten, red and violet, a sea of bright lights glowing in a field of tall grass. He sounded wistful, even to himself. Turning from the screen, the Doctor slipped his sonic into his breast pocket for later, now happy that nothing had been wrong; it wouldn't do to have his tool fail when he most needed it.

Jack's eyebrow was quirked in curiosity, expectant for an explanation. Even Sherlock had come out of his glazed stupor, partially listening. The Doctor merely grinned as if he hadn't said anything and clasped his hands together, feeling the scratch of toughened skin as the callouses on his palms and fingers touched, acting the innocent child who definitely did _not _take the cookie from the jar (no, that would be his invisible friend). Looking from Jack to Sherlock and back again, the Doctor mentally shook the tension from his shoulders—they were safe now, in the Time Vortex, unless the TARDIS found something else she wanted him to take a look at. Nothing was going to get them when they were out of the loop from _everything_; nothing existed anymore that could track them down. All that was left to do was to wait for John to wake up. Until then . . .

"So," the Doctor said cheerfully, the grin on his face beginning to burn, "Who's hungry?"

Sherlock looked mildly disgusted at the suggestion. Jack's left eyebrow raised to meet the other.

Back on Earth, a man with red hair punched the wall in frustration. Part of it crumbled at his touch, and his yell could be heard miles away.


End file.
